The Rules of the Game
by estrafalaria103
Summary: Competing in the Hunger Games is a virtual death sentence. Your fate is determined by a piece of paper and teenagers from twelve districts. For some of them, survival is second nature: for others, they've been training their entire lives. Canon pairings.
1. Santana

I wake up to cold. Not that it's a surprise. It's cold every day in District 12, even in the middle of the _pinche_ summer. It's cold in the faces of the people who live here, cold in our movements, cold in the hunger staring out from the eyes of the children. The only place that isn't cold is the mines – dark and forbidding from the outside, but the men say that it's stifling in the obscurity.

I glance around the room. Mami is still sleeping, her face turned to the wall, body curled around Luisa and Jesus. They're still so little, wrapped around one another like a pair of kittens in the storybooks. Andrea and Xiomara are on their shared bed. The door is open, and I realize that cold air is still coming in, so I pull a blanket around my shoulders and step outside.

"What the fuck, Noah?"

My best friend – only friend, really – is standing at the side of our door, brawny arms crossed across his chest. He's good-looking despite thick, black hair that he insists on shaving at the sides, leaving a skunk's tail across his scalp. He just grins at me, insolent as ever.

"Morning to you, too, Satan," he says. "I just couldn't bear to let you miss out on the glorious morning."

What he really means is that it's reaping day, and he's terrified. Which pisses me off, more than a little, because it's been the same every year, since we first entered our names. Puck's scared, even though his name is only entered seven times. Mine. . .I don't even know, anymore. Once for me, for Mami, for Luisa, Jesus, Andrea, Xiomara, and three times for Julissa, until she passed away. Multiply that by five and. . .

Noah's eyes are soft as he looks at me, and I realize that my mask must have slipped. I cross my arms across my chest and glare at him again.

"What's wrong, sweetcheeks?" he asks. "Miss out on some beauty sleep? You're starting to get wrinkles."

My hands fly to my face before my brain can catch up. It's not that I'm so horribly vain. . .it's just that my looks are all I have. If I'm ever going to get out of the Seam, it's by marrying some merchant boy. God knows that they won't marry me for my wealth or sparkling personality, so it's gonna have to be the big boobs, thin legs, and full lips.

Noah cackles, even as I lean forward to slap him. He catches my wrist before I do.

"Just take a walk with me," he says, his voice almost pleading. "For old times sake."

I don't want to go with him, I really don't. It's cold outside, and people will talk when they see us – more than they do usually, which isn't gonna help me shack up with the baker's son. All of the girls in town love Noah, and I have no doubt that dozens of them lie in bed at night, masturbating to the thought of his hazel eyes or strong hands. But none of them talk to him, none of them would ever date him, or take them home to meet their parents. I wouldn't either, if he hadn't sought me out way back then, if he didn't bring eggs to my house every Thursday, and bird meat on Tuesdays. I don't ask questions, he doesn't provide them, and at least two days a week we get to eat like normal people.

We walk down the grimy back alleys. We don't talk. We've never been big on talking. First we'd avoided one another, then we'd sucked face, then we'd sucked other things, and now we're mostly back to the silence. Probably because I'm busy with the kids all the time, since Mami has a job again. And Noah is. . .well, I don't know what he's doing, but it's probably illicit or illegal.

Before I realize where we're headed, we're on the outskirts of town. That's where we finally stop. I don't understand why, because there's nothing here except the dirty smell of coal and empty riggings. Even the mines are closed for the reaping.

"It's a shitty choice, right?" Noah says. "I mean. . .get picked during the reaping, or work in the mines. Dead if I do and dead if I don't."

"Plenty of people do fine in the mines," I say. Noah shrugs.

"For ten years, fifteen, maybe twenty. Then their lungs go bad and they cough up blood. And that's only if there isn't an accident."

His words are bitter. His dad died in an accident. His mom left right after it – rumor around the Seam was that she left for District 13. It's only a rumor, though, and even Noah knows not to pay attention. There's no such thing as District 13. . .it's as much a fairytale as the cuddly kittens and bright-eyed puppies that my little sisters like to read about.

"Still better than the Games."

"I don't know about that."

I want to slap him, then. He's eighteen. . .it's the last year his name will be entered. It won't be pulled, he won't be sent to die in a killer landscape designed by the bastards in the Capitol. He'll graduate school and work in the mines, probably marry some dippy girl with acne and dimples in her ass. Pop out a couple of kids and die from black lung. It could be worse. It could be a hell of a lot worse.

"Santana. . ."

When he says my name I turn to look at him. I know what he wants, and I open my mouth. I don't like him like that – I'm not sure that I ever died – but it's easy to suck on his lip, taste his tongue. It's easy to enjoy the way that his pulse speeds up and his body presses closer to mine.

It's a little warmth in a cold fucking world.

We don't stay there long, macking on one another. The reaping starts early, and we both have to change for it. He'll put on one of his father's old suits, and I'll wrap a sheet around me, or something. We're expected to look good for the reaping – presentable for the cameras. Noah peels off one way, and I enter my own hellhole.

Xiomara and Andrea are dressed, each of them wearing one of my old dresses. Xiomara's pretty – prettier than me, probably, with apple rose cheeks and a delicate, sweet smile. She's wearing a pink dress, one that Noah gave us after his mom left. It has flowers appliquéd around the bottom. I still remember wearing it, just last year when I was fifteen. Andrea isn't pretty – her lips are always turned down, and her eyebrows are too long and thick. Her hair is a mess, too, and she's a little overweight, which is crazy for people living in the Seam. I used to think that she was stealing food, not sharing it with the family, but now I think it's just the way she looks.

Mami is sitting on the bed, too tired and sick to get Jesus or Luisa dressed. It's important that Jesus get dressed. . .it's his first real reaping, the first time that he'll be joining all of us candidates in the roped-off section. Luisa's safe. . .she's only nine, so they'll let her stay with mami. Still, she can't be wearing that threadbare shift.

"Mara, Andrea, why didn't you make them get dressed?" I ask in exasperation.

"They don't want to," Andrea says sullenly. XIomara just holds out a small blue dress wordlessly.

The dress has seen better days. All of the girls have worn it. It's Mami's, from back when she was a little girl. The hem is coming a bit undone, and it's frayed around the armholes, but it will have to do. Luisa protests the whole time I'm putting it on.

"I want to go to school," she insists petulantly. "You don't wear your nice clothes to school. I don't _want_ to go to church."

"We're not going to church," Xiomara says. "We're going to a party. Everyone's going to be dressed up. You'll like it."

I wince as she says it, and perhaps I pull a little too hard on Jesus' tie. It's just hard to understand anyone liking the reaping.

Except that I must have, when I was younger. I must have thought it was exciting, with the people from the Capitol in their fancy clothing, and all of the cameras. I must have watched in wide-eyed disbelief as the cameras projected images from the other districts.

What I dumbass I must have been.

"Mami," I say urgently, after I've finally forced Jesus into his suit. "Mami, get dressed, we have to go." She just peers at me with her dead eyes.

"Brush your hair a hundred times, _m'hija_," she says. "That will help the oils distribute themselves."

It's going to be one of those days again. Realistically, nobody will notice or care if one more, middle-aged woman isn't there. And it's not like I'm not used to taking care of things myself, anyway. So I bundle the kids together, ignored Andrea's protests, and head down to the Square.

I hadn't completely lied to Luisa – in some ways, Reaping really is like a party. The Capitol sends men down to clean up the streets, and festoon all of the shops surrounding the Square with ribbons and streamers. People in the Capitol don't want to see dirty, half-starved faces and coal-streaked buildings. They want to believe that the world is doing fine – not _fabulous_ like them, but fine. So they doll up our freaky little town and force us to play dress-up and join them in the charade.

The sick thing is that we all do it. Like a bunch of sick little lemmings.

Some stupid painted trollop is one the stage, standing beside our mayor, and our last victor. Our only victor, really, since only one other person ever survived the Games from our District, and she went crazy and ate her own hand. At least, that's what I've always been told, and I have no reason to doubt it. Instead we only have Beiste.

I think Beiste is a man, and most of the women do, too, but a few of the guys insist that she's a chick. In a way, I should believe them. Noah once went all vigilante on her fat ass, staking out the house in the Victor's Village, boring holes in bathrooms, watching at all hours to try and catch a glimpse of Beiste naked. He insists that the victor has breasts. I think they might just be manboobs.

Then again, Beiste's first name is Shannon, or Sharon, or something like that, and I've never heard of that being a girls' name. It's just that Beiste is fucking huge, like a tree, round and solid and heavy with muscle and fat. It's hairy, and always dressed in the most shapeless clothes, with close-cropped hair that resembles that of the men in the mines.

If Beiste is a woman, she's the ugliest one ever to exist, no doubt.

Our mayor, on the other hand, is attractive. Blond and blue-eyed, with delicate hands that are pink and unblemished, not calloused from work in the mines. He's probably never even washed dishes, just lived in his privileged, ivory tower.

At ten on the dot, he starts the reaping. It starts the same as ever: he reminds us of the history of Panem, the wars that wrecked the country. He tells us that the Capitol saved us from the disasters, the squirmishes, the hunger and drought. I wonder, yet again, whether the mayor ever wanders down to the Seam, because his description of the past sounds an awful lot like my present. He reminds us of the Dark Days, when the Districts rose up against the Capitol, and tells us that the Games are our punishment.

Some kind of a sick, twisted punishment. Taking kids – little kids, sometimes only eleven – to die for some pervert's pleasure. Making kids atone for the supposed misdeeds of their grandparents. I wish I'd been alive in the Dark Days. I'd have risen up against those fuckers, no doubt about it.

Then they turn on the monitors, and begin to project the reapings across the country.

They start in District One, and watching the scene is like being pulled into an entirely different world. Everyone in District One is strong and proud looking. They all look clean – not our fake, freshly scrubbed clean, hair pulled back so no one notices that it's greasy or caked in coal. They look really clean, with full cheeks and sparkling eyes. They don't rope off their kids, they all just stand together in a big, beautiful hall.

And their clothes. . .oh, their clothes are just beautiful, silks and satins and other materials I don't even know the names of. Sometimes I think I would kill just to have a ribbon of that material.

They pull names out of a spinning cage, the same way we do. It's supposed to be a show of solidarity and unity, I think. The cage, which looks glittering and new in our square, just looks old-fashioned and antiquated in District One.

Before their representative from the Capitol can even read the name, a tall, burly kid pushes his way to the front. He must be eighteen to be so big: his shirt is straining at the shoulders, and there's stubble all along his jawline. It's not a surprise that he's older – District One's champions always are. They're Career fighters, trained their whole lives to compete. Of course they're going to wait until the last possible year.

"I volunteer," he says, his voice low and menacing. The representative just grins brightly and drops the name to the side. The boy lumbers up beside her, and nods curtly to everyone in the audience. The camera zooms in on his face, on his square jaw and surprisingly delicate eyebrows.

"I'm Dave Karofsky," he says unflinchingly. "I'd be proud to represent District One."

There's a riot of applause, and even in our Square people are clapping along. We have to, of course, with the Peacekeepers lining all of the streets, eyes peeled for any sign of disobedience. But even beneath the forced action, there's an undercurrent of respect. This kid is strong looking and formidable. It's hard not to cheer for someone who is so likely to win.

The cage is sent spinning again, another show so that they can pretend things aren't rigged in out there. Yet again, before the representative can read a name, a figure is pushing through the crowd.

"I volunteer."

I'm a little surprised by this one. It's a young girl, though I'm sure, like Dave, that she's eighteen. She's slight and pretty – more than pretty, really, she's the most beautiful girl that I've ever seen, with lively green eyes and blond hair. She looks strong, though, with tight little arms. Maybe District One has a specific strategy this year, other than to bulldoze through. Maybe Dave will be the brawn and this girl the beauty.

Or maybe she's more badass than she looks in a pretty white dress and blond curled hair.

The camera zooms in again, on her perfect face. Her teeth are white and straight, her skin almost without discernable pores. I have no doubt that her entire appearance is the best that money could buy. I hate her on instinct.

"Hello, everyone," she says with a charming smile and a little wave. "My name is Quinn Fabray, and I am absolutely honored to represent our District in the Hunger Games."

The sweetness makes me want to vomit. Around me there's whispering, and the applause is more sparse. There's something unsettling about the girl, something menacing in her perfection.

The cameras go blank for a moment as they transition to District Two. I feel a heavy hand on my back and turn to stare at Noah. He isn't looking at me, though. He's just looking at the dark cameras.

"Maybe I should volunteer," he says.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Can't be worse than the mines," he says. I don't bother to answer, because it's a stupid thing to say, it's so, so stupid, and he has to know that.

The camera's flash back on, and now we're in District Two. It's a sterner scene than District One, all greys and metal black. Even the people are dressed in somber colors. There's something threatening in the picture, as though they're all ready for battle. Which makes sense, I suppose, since District Two handles all of the Defense for the Capitol.

We run through the charade again. We all know that District Two sends Careers – there's no way their competitors haven't trained for the games, not with the disproportionate number of victors that come from there. Still, they're stealthier about it than District One. Maybe they don't want to be found out, or maybe they have a little more respect for those of us who don't have the time or funds to train our youth. There aren't ever volunteers from District Two. . .somehow the system is rigged, so their names are pulled from the swirl of strips.

"Rachel Berry!" the voice calls out. There isn't an exclamation of joy from District Two: they just stand apart, creating an open isle down the center of people. It's Moses parting the red sea, only instead of leading people to freedom, this is sending a young girl to almost certain death. I don't feel bad for her.

What finally emerges from the crowd is a plain little hobbit. She has straight brown hair, and her nose is too big. And she's _tiny_. Even on the camera, with no point of reference I can tell that she's miniature. I wonder if there was finally a slip-up. But nobody seems surprised. The camera zooms in on her face.

"Hello," Rachel booms, her voice clear and confident, and I realize that no mistake has been made. "My name is Rachel Berry, and I am the next District Two victor!"

She's still talking, for some reason, but the camera has pulled away and the cage is spinning again. When it stops, the representative reaches in and pulls out a name.

"Jesse st. James!"

There's silence. The crowd doesn't part, and the representative frowns. When nobody begins walking, he calls out again. "Jesse st. James?"

Behind him, Rachel Berry, she of the man hands and massive beak (seriously, what does she do with that thing, break open seeds?) looks nervous, twisting her dress around in her hands.

A third time "Jesse st. James?" Berry looks like she's going to wet herself, and I feel a little vindicated. Things go wrong, even in the richer Districts.

"Jesse fell in the Factory," a man yells from the very back. The camera zooms in on him, bristly grey beard and dead eyes. "He ain't even conscious yet."

Back to the representative, who looks confused. I hold my breath. There's no excuse for skipping the games if your name has been chosen. If you're hurt or sick, blind or deaf, even if you can't walk. Rachel looks like she's going to cry.

"Well. . ." the representative says slowly. "I suppose. . .it's still up to him, even though. . ."

"No!" Rachel runs forward, tears streaming down her face, and I perk up a little. This is finally getting _fun_. "No, you can't, I'm supposed to have a partner, Jesse's supposed to _help_ me! You're just sending him to die! You're sending me to die!"

"Well, that generally does happen in the Games," the representative says, chuckling a little nervously.

"Please," Rachel cries, peering now into the audience. "Please, somebody. . .dont' make Jesse do this. Don't make _me_ do this. . ."

There's a sudden mumbling on the screen. I didn't hear anyone volunteer, but there's a shift in the tight press of bodies, and then a short, scrawny kid is breaking free. His hair is carefully controlled, and he's wearing a tight, immaculate suit.

"I volunteer," he says. The audience goes wild, and I don't understand why. Around me people are tentatively clapping, casting nervous glances back at the Peacekeepers, but we don't understand, either.

The boy walks up on stage, and opens his arm. Rachel falls into them, clasping at him like a lifeline, sobbing hopelessly. The camera swivels around her to try and catch his face. It's still wobbling, and the picture is unclear, but the mics are working.

"You're my best friend, Rach. I love you. I'll keep you safe."

The camera finally steadies, and the boy looks up with a fierce, almost-angry look in his eyes.

"My name is Blaine Anderson. May the odds be in our fav—"

The screen cuts off before he finishes his sentence, and I turn to Noah with a shocked look on my face. It's clear now why District Two reacted. Those two are clearly devoted to one another, and it's unheard of for a volunteer from the Career district.

I can't remember, in the history of the game, a couple ever competing on the Hunger Games. It's hard to imagine anybody enjoying a game where a boyfriend must kill his girlfriend, or vice versa. Around me, people are shifting uncomfortably. Somehow, District Two has just changed the games.


	2. Quinn

**AN: Thanks for all of the awesome reviews. Glad to know that people are into this. I know there are some other fusion fics out there, but they never seem to get finished, which just isn't fair. I want to know who the victor is, darn it! (And yes, I've already decided on my victor – feel free to guess who it is!)**

There's a sudden chatter in the audience as they watch Blaine and Rachel smile tearfully at one another. Women are cooing, and even a few men are brushing at their eyes. I just cross my legs. This is supposed to be _my_ moment.

Ever since I can remember, my parents have been grooming me to be a competitor in the Games. My father in particular always used to tell me that the minute they called my name I would be a hero, a goddess. Everyone would cheer for me and it would be the greatest moment of my life.

He was right.

But now. . .now they aren't clapping for me, they're staring with awestruck eyes at some big-nosed freak and her hairy little boyfriend. She's not even pretty – it's like she never bothered to get a haircut, or eat a proper diet.

"Don't worry, Quinn. We'll take care of them at the Cornucopia," Dave whispers. That's enough to bring a smile back to my face, and I settle back into my seat on the stage. What he means, of course, is that he'll take them out early on. My entire role is to be pretty and charming.

I get the gifts from the sponsors. He takes care of the other tributes.

I turn my attention back to the screens. They've moved on to District Three now, all whirring neon lights and clicking computers. District Three holds their Reaping inside, which is appropriate, I suppose, for a district of people wearing glasses because their eyes have been damaged by computer screens and electric wires. I must have missed the calling of the first tributes name, but I manage to catch her making her way up. Dave snorts and begins to chuckle, and I have to bite my lip to keep from doing the same.

The girl is huge. Seriously, she probably weighs three times as much as me, and she's not pretty at _all_. Her eyes are tiny and pinched, the color barely discernable behind her thick-framed glasses. Her hair is thin and mousy looking, and even though her lips are a pretty shape, they're tiny. She crosses her arms and frowns out at everyone. It's probably just a show. She's trying not to show weakness, but when Dave catches my eye, I know that we're both thinking the same thing.

Easy meet.

The representative presses a button on a computer, and a screen lights up behind her. Names scroll down, moving too fast to actually see, lighting up one by one. It stops, abruptly, and the rep leans forward to call out a name.

"And our male tribute will be. . .Artie Abrams!"

There's a shocked gasp from the audience in District Three. This Artie kid must be the mayor's son, or something. One of those kids from a special family that somehow never gets chosen. Whoever he is, he's slow. The audience continues to shift, while _our_ audience, our District One members, slowly turn their attention back to Dave and me. Dave preens under the attention, while I just smile shyly and peer at them from beneath my eyelashes.

Sue, the previous champion from District One, has told me that it's my best look.

There's finally a parting in the crowd of District Three, and the camera zooms in. I still don't get what the big deal is – Artie is perfectly normal looking. Not attractive, but not ugly, per – se. He's wearing glasses, too, but that's not a surprise from the electric district. He has a really bad haircut, and a downturned mouth.

But then the camera zooms out, and I understand why everyone is so shocked. Artie is in a wheelchair. He's pushing his way forward, but there's no ramp to get to the stage in his District, and he has to pause awkwardly just outside it. He's not trying to look tough, like the girl. . .his arms are trembling, and he's biting his lip, clearly trying to keep back tears.

"Talk about a bullseye on his back," Dave sneers. "They're making it too easy for us."

I feel a moment of pity for poor Artie Abrams. You can't allowed to bring anything into the Games, including a wheelchair. The minute the games begin he's going to be stuck, unable to move, to defend himself. Dave won't even need to bother trying to take him out. The poor kid will starve to death in a matter of weeks.

If District Three had any propriety, any sense of honor at all, someone would volunteer to take his place. I hold my breath, waiting for it to happen, and I can tell that everyone else in District One is similarly waiting. But a full minute passes, until finally the rep says, "well, that's it from us! Moving on to District Four!"

There's even more muttering from the audience now, people turning away from the monitors to talk to one another. Everybody feels bad for the cripple – even I know that it's blatantly unfair to make him compete. He has the entire nations' sympathy. As I glance out the side of my eye at my partner, I notice that Dave looks positively excited at the prospect of taking out the kid. I pray that he won't do anything stupid in the beginning of the game – he's so certain after all his training that this will be easy. I don't think it will.

A District One tribute hasn't won in four years. I think that's testament enough to the fact that sometimes training just isn't enough.

Besides, I've heard stories about what sponsor's gifts can buy. Vials of poison and once, even, a gun. I'll never be able to defeat Dave on strength. But if I can win the love of the wealthiest people in the Capitol, well. . .

Quinn Fabray won't go down easily.

There's no excitement in the next few districts. Some of the tributes cry, some of them look proud and fierce, but they all walk forward with shaking limbs, leaving behind wailing family members and friends. It isn't until District Seven that disaster strikes.

It shouldn't, really. District Seven is home to paper mills and lumber yards. It's not exactly known for putting out fierce competitors. I have no doubt that it won't in this case, either.

They name their male tribute, first: a good-looking boy named Michael Chang. He sucks in a deep breath when he hears his name, but there's no other reaction. As the camera zooms in on his conservative, Asian features, however, I can se the fear in his eyes. They're practically screaming "terror".

Before he's taken even three steps, however, there's a scream, and a girl throws herself forward, wrapping octopus-like around his body. She's a blubbering mess of tears and snot, and involuntarily my lip turns up. Really, I don't see why anybody should ever lose her composure like that. It's undignified and frankly a bit demeaning.

She's yelling something, now, but between the crying and the plugged nose, and the way she keeps burying her face into the boys' shoulder, I can't figure out what it is. She looks like she could be his sister, at least to my eyes, so accustomed to the rosy skin of District One. But the way she's acting. . .well, it seems incredibly inappropriate if they're just siblings.

Finally, Michael seems to understand what she's saying, and pushes her back, frantically saying "no, no, Tina, you can't."

"What?" their rep asks, leaning forward. "What is she saying?"

"Nothing," Michael says frantically. "She's not saying anything. Go back to your family, Tina."

"No, no, no," the girl keeps saying, shaking her hair, long black tresses blowing in the wind. "I volunteer, I volunteer."

The rep looks confused. "You want to go in Michael's place? But you can't, he's. . ."

"I want to go with him," Tina says frantically. "I'd rather die with him than live without him."

The bottom falls out of my world. This is ridiculous, it's unacceptable. I know that I can still get sponsors away from Rachel. I'm far prettier than her, and she seems a bit self-centered. Her love story is weak. But this girl has a wild, exotic beauty, and she is clearly head over heels with Michael. I wonder, briefly, if I should fake a love affair with Dave. It only take a brief moment of glancing over and seeing his piggish, hate-filled eyes and bulky build to realize that won't work. Nobody will buy it, and it's not in the plan.

I look into the crowd, trying to find the figure of Sue Sylvester. She'll be our mentor, having absolutely decimated the competition the year that she'd competed. She'll have a plan, I think desperately, she'll know how to spin things so that people still love us – love _me_. But I can't find her in the press of bodies.

The rest of the Reaping passes in a blur. There's an anemic looking boy and a brassy black girl from District 8, a cute looking guy from District Ten and an even cuter one from District Eleven.

The crowd starts to filter out as the Reaping finally arrives at District Twelve. Nobody likes to stay and watch this part. It's too pathetic, the way the mining town tries to deck itself out for the annual celebration, the way all of the hungry, depressed looking people dress in what they clearly think is their best clothing – all of it decades out of fashion. There's an air of grime that lays over the district, and I almost feel like I can _smell_ it.

The area is only about half-full, then, when the rep calls out the name of "Santana Lopez." A dark-haired, fiercely beautiful girl walks forward. She's the first tribute that I can remember who doesn't look scared, who doesn't tremble or stumble. She walks forward with her chin held high and her shoulders back, as proud and confident as if she were a Career. Dave hunches forward in interest.

She leaves behind a group of wailing children, all with the same dark features. Younger brothers and sisters, I suppose, and realize with a flash of pity that she'd probably taken out tesserae for them. I've heard of the tradition, of course, but it's rarely practiced in District One. The Fabray family has certainly never had to stoop to such measures.

But then the rep calls out the name of the boy. "Jesus Lopez."

That's enough to break the girl. Her eyes flash and she darts forward, throwing the representatives microphone to the ground, screaming "no", her hands reaching forward like sharp talons. There's a collective gasp from everyone gathered, and the streaming exit abruptly stops. Everyone wants to watch this.

I can't remember a time that there's ever been violence at a Reaping.

A small boy begins walking forward, one of the ones who had been crying just minutes before. He can't be older than eleven, just barely able to be entered into the drawing. He keeps brushing his hands against his eyes even as Santana continues to scream.

I notice their similar features, the identical surname. He's her brother.

The boy only makes it to the bottom of the stairs, however, before a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. The boy stops, and turns to look up at the new figure, his gaze full of trust and hope. I'm standing now, shaking my head angrily. No, this cannot be happening. There are usually one, if any, volunteers during the Reaping. Oh, there are the Careers, of course, but that's not the same. That's not Blaine, trying to help Rachel, or Tina refusing to let Michael go alone. That isn't this young man, firmly putting Jesus back with his sisters before ascending the steps himself.

Santana is still crying, but she's closed her hands into fists now, and she pounds them into the boys' chest.

"This isn't any better," she cries. "This isn't any better, you jackass. This isn't what I want."

The boy just turns and grins into the cameras. Quinn gasps, because he is the single most beautiful being she has ever seen. His eyes are a gentle hazel, and he has full lips and. . .well, his hair is absolutely horrible, just one strip across the top that looks like roadkill. But other than that, he looks like a dream.

"Yo," he says, his voice low and pleasantly smooth. "The name's Noah Puckerman, and I'm gonna win these Games."

Xxx

There's a final banquet for Dave and myself, before they set us on the train for the Capitol. I've heard previous victors talk about the banquet: it's a celebratory affair, with delicious food and dancing, and proud mothers and fathers. It's supposed to be, anyway. There's a somber overtone to this dinner, however, my mother and father silently cutting into their steak, while Dave's father keeps nervously biting at his lower lip and glancing around as though afraid.

Only Sue Sylvester seems as confident as she had in the morning. She's loudly talking about the weaknesses of each candidate, about how a story doesn't matter if you're killed at the Cornucopia, or by tracker jackers, or when jabberjays trick you into drowning in a lake. As the night wears on, I realize that she has a point.

Dave will take out half of those fools within the first hour. We'll decide who is strong enough to team up with – usually we'd pair with the Careers from District Two, but I can already tell that I don't like the girl, and I imagine that Dave feels the same way about the guy. I find myself idly wondering if we'll get along with the tributes from District Twelve. They look surprisingly strong for people from the coal mining district.

By the end of the night my mother is smiling again, and Daddy is back to looking confident and smug. Sue is right. A compelling sob story won't help those tributes if they're dead. In a few hours I'll be back to being the golden girl, and everyone will love me again.

We're all leaving when my mother comes up to me, her eyes wide and back to being filled with the glimmer of tears. Dave walks past, to board the train, and both his parents and my father veer to the right to head home. Mother, however, reaches out and grabs my hand. She presses something small, cold, and sharp into my palm, closing my fingers over it.

"You can take one thing with you into the games," she whispers to me. "One memento of home."

I know what she's given me before I even open my hand. Still, it's an automatic reaction, an almost rabid curiosity to see what she' handed me. I pull my fingers apart and stare, almost uncomprehendingly, at the small gold necklace.

It's a cross. I close my hand around it and glance up at my mother. I'd known what it would be, but I'm still shocked to see it.

"Wear it under your clothes," she says, before wrapping me in a hug.

My mother's cross, passed down since before the Dark Days, when people worshipped different gods and there were more religions than just the Capitol's amorphous form of Christianity. Her cross has the figure of Jesus on it, in his crucifixion. It's not allowed by the Capitol. There's a part of me that wants to hurl the gift away. If I'm caught with this. . .

But there's another part, a stronger part, that clasps it around my neck. It's my own little act of defiance. I'm born and raised to win these games, and I plan on doing so, but that doesn't mean I like them. It's hard to like anything that sends defenseless 11 year olds to their deaths.

Jesus Christ died for our sins. Now we, the children of Panem, go forth to die for our grandparents'.

**AN: Wow, this chapter is so much cleaner than the last one. Thank you, Quinn, for your proper diction and filtering.**

**COMING SOON: Finn finds a surrogate father figure, Brittany ponders the unpopularity of sporks, Will Schuester attempts to scheme and all of the tributes come closer to the Capitol. **


	3. Finn

**AN: Short chappie. Blame Finn. And the fact that I just had to get everyone to the Capitol for the sake of the plot. **

Finn's not really sure how he feels about the Games. He's never really had time to watch them in the past. . .the youth in District Ten are often sent to watch the sheep in the pastures during the day, or to feed the chickens, or any other of a series of mundane tasks. He's seen the Reaping, of course, and at night his mom always makes him watch the death toll, but that's really all that he knows.

He knows that District Ten hasn't had a victor in thirteen years, not since Will Schuester. But he figures those aren't such bad odds, not when there are only twelve districts anyway.

So while there's a part of him that recognizes that the Games are dangerous and knows that he'll probably die, there's also a part of him that figures that it might not be so bad. After all, he's big and he's strong. People like him. . .he's one of the most popular guys in District Ten, so he's sure to get some good gifts from sponsors. And he's tall, so he can totally see danger coming before other people.

Besides, it's hard to get really nervous when so far everything has been pretty awesome. The other tribute from District Ten is seriously smoking – Brittany is a year older than Finn, and they've never really gotten to talk. She's been assigned to the geese and the ducks her entire life, while he's been hanging out with the wool-headed sheep. Still, everyone knows that Brittany's hot, and rumor has it that she puts out.

Yes, Finn Hudson is hoping that he'll get a little action from his tribute. After all, if the Games really do usually result in death, he doesn't want to die a virgin.

Saying good-bye to his mom had sucked, but then he'd gotten put on this train. Finn's never been on a train before, and he's fascinated by all of the gears, the smooth traction, the way it seems to just glide. He opens a window and pokes his head out, looking for the ox or horses that must be pulling it, but there's nothing in front of him but a black box and billows of smoke.

It's like magic. Maybe the Capitol is magic.

"Hey," a soft voice says, startlingly near his ear. "What are you looking at?"

"What am I _not_ looking at," Finn corrects. He reaches out and awkwardly sticks his arm out the window. He's trying to point, but his shoulder just gets in the way. Brittany peers curiously at his armpit. "I was trying to see what was pulling the train."

"Oh," Brittany says, pulling back a little and blinking at him. "Don't be silly. Nothing's pulling the train."

Finn instantly feels stupid. Now there's no way that Brittany will bang him. Plus, she probably won't even want to ally with him in the games.

"The horses are underneath. That's why you hear the chugga sound from below you."

Finn considers for a moment, before nodding. It does make sense, and he _does_ feel something going up and down beneath his feet. He glances to the girl at his side. She smiles at him.

"I'm Finn," he says impulsively, sticking out his hand.

"Okay." She says. "I was told to come get you for dinner."

Dinner? Finn instantly perks up, even happy than he'd been before. He'd kind of just assumed that they wouldn't eat until they reached the capitol. He wonders what they'll be having – eggs or milk, baked bread or leftover grains? He follows after Brittany, and he only checks out her ass a little as they go.

The dining car is unbelievable. It's covered in a weird red fabric that's soft and kind of furry to the touch. It's almost like the walls are covered in rabbit fur, only the fur isn't as long. There's a table set out in the middle of the room, bolted to the ground, and a series of stools around it. Most of the seats are empty, but one man is already seated at the table, curly-haired and a little lonely-looking.

"Hey, Mr. Schue," Finn says, happily clambering onto a table. William Schuester, District Ten's lone surviving victor of the Hunger Games also happens to be the district's only school teacher. Most of the adults insist that there's no point in the kids going to school – it doesn't require a lot of education to milk the cows or watch the sheep, after all. At eighteen, the biggest and strongest boys are carted off to become butchers, the kids scoring well on their anatomy tests begin training to become veterinarians, and the girls begin supervising responsibilities in the fields or pens. But really, most people think that the schooling should belong only to the upperclass, who inevitably become the veterinarians anyway.

Finn's hoping that he qualifies as a butcher. That would be way cooler than carting things around as a trader, or having to carry bags of feed all day.

Though, now that he thinks about it, he'll probably either die in the next couple of weeks or return to the district as the richest man ever. Except for Will Schuester, of course. Yet another awesome thing about the Games.

"My chair won't move," Brittany informs them. Mr. Schue just kind of gapes, and Finn pats his hand consolingly. It's the same expression his teacher makes whenever Finn turns in an assignment. He's not entirely sure what it means, but his mom once told him just to apologize, shrug, and smile disarmingly.

Finn still isn't quite sure how to smile with his arm, so he usually just smiles and pats his teacher on the shoulder.

"Food will be out in a minute," Mr. Schue says when he's recovered from his fit. "We're sharing the train with the tributes from District Eight, since we were directly on their route. As soon as they get out here we'll be able to eat."

"Dude, there are other tributes on this train?" Finn asks excitedly. "Doesn't that mean that we'll get an advantage? Being able to scope out the competition ahead of time?"

Mr. Schue just sighs. "Finn, there are no advantages to this Game. Unless you count the years of training that the Careers put in."

"I train my rear every day," Brittany says. "Sometimes with sex. Sometimes with my finger."

Finn frowns, trying to figure out what she means. With her finger. . .wait. Oh. Wow.

He's still taking this in (Mr. Schue has that expression on his face again, so Finn pats him) when the door at the opposite end of the dining car opens and three people walk in.

Finn's initial impression is that he can totally kick their asses. Then he feels a little bad about it. The kid walking in front is kind of short and skinny, plus he's dressed like a girl. Behind him is a fat black girl, and behind her an older woman with eyes that look like they're eating up her face.

Mr. Schuester stands up and does a weird half bow thing.

"Emma, please, come in, have a seat."

The red headed lady blushes a little and sits down beside Mr. Schuester, motioning toward the other two seats. The two teenagers sit down.

"Hi, I'm Finn!"

He reaches over the table with his hand. The black girl grins and shakes it enthusiastically, but the boy just grabs one of Finn's fingers between two of his own and kind of wags it, like he's afraid of getting his hand dirty. Brittany grabs the boys hand away.

"Your hands are soft," she says. "Like a baby's. "

"Thank you," the boy says. Finn's glad that they don't have food yet, because if they did he would totally spit it out. The boy sounds just like a girl. But that can't be right, because each District is supposed to send one boy and one girl.

"My name's Mercedes," the new girl says.

"And I'm Kurt Elizabeth Hummel."

Finn frowns. Kurt, he's pretty sure, is a guy's name. Elizabeth is definitely a girl. And Mercedes is. . .well, he's not sure. He knows it's a kind of car. Anyway, she's definitely a girl because she has boobs.

Not that he was looking.

Before things have the opportunity to get more awkward, the door opens again and some people begin walking in with food. Not just a little food, either, but heaping piles of food. There's a thick orange carrot soup, and piles of freshly baked bed, and a tender beef that Finn's never been allowed to _touch_ even though he's seen the butchers tearing down the cow, and there's some kind of a drink that's sweet and hot and. . .

Now his stomach feels like it's going to explode. As the dishes are cleared and plates of a cold, creamy substance are placed in front of them, he slowly comes back to the present, and realizes with a sick jolt that everyone else has been talking throughout the meal. Maybe he should have been listening. After all, as far away as the Games seem now, they are coming up, and these three people sitting around the table, as nice as they seem, will be trying to kill him.

But then he's eating the sweet, sweet cold thing, and he figures that he can worry about it in the morning.

"Finn? Finn?"

Except that Mr. Schuester obviously doesn't want him to put it off. Finn looks up, over the edge of his spoon. Out the corner of his eye, he sees Kurt sneering.

"He eats like a dump truck," he hisses to Mercedes, who just shrugs.

"You're ready for the stylist tomorrow, right?"

"My mom writes on a stylist when she doesn't have any paper," Brittany says. Everyone turns to look at her, and she just shrugs. "She says it's what the cave men used to do."

"Right. . ." Mr. Schuester takes a deep breath, before turning to face Finn. And yeah, Finn feels pretty good about that, because obviously he and the teacher are _bonding_, which means he may be Mr. Schue's favorite, which means he may get more gifts from sponsors, which means. . .

Oh yeah, his teacher is still talking.

"Whatever they want to do, you let them. Finn? Finn, are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah, of course," Finn says, nodding. "It's totally cool. Whatever the stylists want to do."

How bad can it be, after all? They'll just, like, cut his hair and dress him up, right?

**AN: Oh, Finn, how little you know. . .**

**COMING SOON: Some people get along better with their stylists then others, everyone gets their first glance at one another, and the Opening Ceremonies!**


	4. Kurt

**AN: And now all of our tributes meet. Bum bum bum! Thanks for all the super nice reviews. Also: Glee back on Tuesday, hurray! **

The Capitol rises out, a black phoenix from beneath the shelter of the mountains. Kurt has to draw in a quick breath, it's so beautiful. It is, in fact, exactly how he's always imagined the city. Of course, he'd never imagined arriving here as a tribute. His dreams had always included designing fashion, and sending back patterns to his District where all of the knuckleheaded Neanderthals would promptly have to bend themselves over backwards to meet his demands. Or maybe he'd come as a stylist, rising quickly through the ranks to style the tributes from District One.

One of whom, of course, would be devastatingly handsome and conveniently gay.

This, however. . .this is not as enjoyable of an experience. He doesn't even want to think about participating in the Games. He knows that he's fabulous, of course, but he'd also been present at the Reaping. He'd seen the District One tribute, all bulk and strength. Most of the guys, for that matter, had been bigger and stronger than him. He'd have to rely on his quickness and his brains to get him through.

Not so terribly different from life back home.

At least Mercedes is here with him. As that thought crosses his mind, he reaches back and grabs his best friend's hand. When both of their names had been called at the Reaping, he hadn't known whether to be elated or horrified. At least he wouldn't have to go through this alone. At least there would be one friendly face in the Capitol.

But only one of them would leave the Games.

He tries to shove all of that to the back of his head. One step at a time, and step one is to enjoy all that the Capitol has to offer. He watches with rapt attention out the window of the train as they pull in. People walk around with bizarre hairstyles, with their skin tinted strange colors, with metallic make-up and piercings all over their bodies. It's exhilarating and disorienting.

But the fashion – oh _Gaga_ the fashion. Kurt's spent his entire life, it seems, following the rule of "Look but don't touch." The factories and tailors in District Six deal with fabric all day, every hour. There's fine silk and delicately wrought lacework, soft cashmere and smooth velvet and none of it, none of it was to be worn by the people of his District. He's gotten to see it, though, and has always thought that the sweetest torture of all.

Today, though. . .today he's going to meet a Stylist. He's going to have his skin properly moisturized, not jus the cheap stuff his dad can afford back home, but the finest organic brands that money can buy. He's going to have his hair cut by a professional, and washed. And then they're going to dress him in something fabulous and one of a kind. Tonight are the Opening Ceremonies, and for one glorious hour the eyes of the nation will be trained on him.

It's a dream come true. Except for the Games which must inevitably follow.

Sharp, bony fingers dig into his shoulders, and he almost jumps. "Shh," Emma, the mentor and prior victor from District Six, soothes. "Just remember, Kurt. You let them do whatever they want."

"Of course," Kurt says, smiling tightly without showing his teeth. "They're the experts."

"They just better not try to tame my inner diva," Mercedes says, flipping her hair. "That right, boo?"

"Abso-freaking-lutely," Kurt says, and shakes his best friends hand. Emma's eyes – already slightly too big for her face – widen even further. Kurt can feel her nails, now, her fingers are pressing so tightly into his shoulders. He hopes that it doesn't bruise.

"Smile tonight," she says. "You need them to love you. No attitude, no pride, no arrogance. Just smile and be happy."

"Ms. Pillsbury, I will be dressed in the finest _de moda_," Kurt points out. "I will be _incredibly_ happy."

They're torn apart, then, a pink-skinned lady grabbing Mercedes and a tall redheaded man taking Kurt by the arm. He gives a jaunty salute to Ms. Pillsbury before stumbling along behind the man.

"I can walk on my own, thank you very much," he says, trying to pull his arm away from the other man's tight clutches. He can't, though, the hand is vice-like in its strength, and he continues to struggle to keep up.

He's put in a small white room, with too-bright lighting and too many mirrors. He waits for what seems like hours before three women walk in, all without eyebrows, pale skinned and platinum haired. They ignore his words, and simply gather around him, efficiently stripping him of his clothes. One immediately begins working on his feet, another his hair, and the third his hands.

"Well, it certainly feels nice to be pampered," Kurt says, trying to initiate some kind of conversation. The three women just hum and continue on with their work.

Mostly it's nice – exactly as Kurt had imagined it, actually, with fine-smelling oils and creamy moisturizers. But there's the wax on his legs which he had _not_ anticipated, and they tweeze his eyebrows (which he maintains perfectly well on his own, thank you very much!) and they tear the cuticles from his nails and buff at the calluses he's earned in hours of sewing the very clothing they're wearing now. One plucks a hair from the crown of his head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "Grey" and Kurt has to keep himself from having his hands fly up to cover his face.

And through it all he's naked.

He's not ashamed of his body, but he's not exactly comfortable with three women just walking around him. At least he's gay – there's no way he'll have an awkward erection in front of three odd, but admittedly beautiful, women. It's just as he's praising his good fortune that he hears a familiar scream from the hallway, and the dull thwapping noise of bare feet hitting the cold linoleum.

"Why do you keep hurting me?" the voice cries, almost pitifully. Kurt _knows_ that he recognizes that voice. . .

"Finn Hudson, you get back here and let us finish waxing your backhair!"

Ah, the boy from the train, then. Kurt shivers delicately. Back hair is utterly disgusting. Finn, though a bit dim-witted, had been charming and not bad on the eyes. He's glad to know that he's avoided a potentially disastrous amorous encounter, however. Back hair is absolutely a deal breaker.

He's just congratulating himself on his good luck when the three women abruptly pull him to his feet and begin hauling him down the hallway. Kurt is getting _very_ tired of being treated like a sack of potatoes, just pulled and yanked every which way.

And then he hears a voice. A voice as familiar as his own, a voice he's been hearing out of the radio by his bedside since he can remember. He just can't believe it's her.

Sure enough, though, he turns around, and there she is. Lady Gaga. In all of her glorious, pop culture-bending, music-belting, fashion-spawning fabulousness. She quirks one eye at him, and he almost swoons.

"I thought you only work with District One?" He finally manages to say. The best stylists always work with the best districts, and to his memory, Lady Gaga has only ever styled District One's tributes, and even then it's a rare honor. She just grins at him toothily.

"I had a wonderful idea," she says. "That would only work for your district."

Xxx

Five hours later, Kurt has changed his mind. Not about how fabulous Lady Gaga is. . .in fact, now he's even more certain that she's a complete genius. Unfortunately, he's not so certain that he's a good model for her genre-bending designs. He peers at himself again in the mirror, and shudders a little.

They're teased his hair up so that it stands half a foot tall on his head, whirled into strange little whorls at the end. Kohl has been applied all around his eyes so that his blue irises glitter strangely in the midst of darkness. And the outfit. . .

Lady Gaga has created a magnificent cloak, all blending, shifting shades of bluegreengrey. Lying on the ground it looks like a bizarre patchwork quilt, with different textures and colors. But when he puts it around his shoulders the folds settle in and the velvet melds into silk into satin into cotton and leather: all of the fabrics of his district melding and complementing one another in a color that only draws the blue of his eyes out more startlingly against the pitch black of the kohl.

That's wonderful, too. It's what he's wearing under the cloak that gives him pause.

One of the white women holds out a piece of black string with one triangle of material. Kurt reaches out to grab it, his fingers pinching around the tiny, tiny bit of cotton. He clutches the cloak more tightly around his naked body.

"This is it?" he asks, his voice trembling a little. "Where are the rest of my clothes?"

The women don't say anything, they just walk out. Kurt pulls in a deep breath, remembering Emma's words. _Do anything the stylist's tell you to_. He pulls on the G-string, pulls the cloak as snugly around his thin frame as possible, and walks out the door.

Almost instantly he crashes into Mercedes. She's dressed in a similar manner, though her cloak is a shifting red/orange/yellow flame, and her eyes are ringed in purple instead of fierce. She grins at him, her white teeth flashing against the dark of her skin. "Boy, you look_ fierce_."

Kurt grins, lips tightly pressed together and teeth hidden.

"I just hope it isn't windy," he says fervently. Mercedes laughs and nods to him.

"Yeah," Mercedes agrees. "I mean, I know that I'm hot stuff, but I'm not sure that the Capitol is ready for all this jelly."

They walk companionably toward the chariot that will pull them out into the stadium. Kurt notices that most of the tributes don't walk together. . .most of them keep a distance between tributes from the same district. Kurt reflexively moves closer to Mercedes and crooks his arm. She slides hers through.

The chariots go out in order, so they have to wait in the wings while the other tributes take their turn in front of the crowd. Kurt can hear the shouts and chatter of the crowd as all the chariots line up. Butterflies erupt in his stomach. This is it, he realizes. The Games start tonight. Tonight the audiences see them, the sponsors see them. Today they let the other tributes know their strategy – he has to decide if he'll be strong and distant, pure and innocent, aggressive, silent, mysterious, fragile. . .His knees lock a little. Just ahead of them, the tunnel opens and the first chariot rolls out.

It's hard to forget the two tributes from District One. The girl, Quinn, is clothed in a form-fitting silver outfit, sequined all over and fill with glittering crystal, silver thread, and diamonds. Her hair is pulled off her face in a high ponytail. In the lights of the arena the jewels glitter and shine. She smiles as they leave, her hand held high. Beside her, the other tribute – Kurt can't remember this one's name – is in complementing gold and deep, blood red garnet. He flexes an arm and snarls at the crowds as they leave.

But District One is always breathtaking. They provide luxury items for the Capitol, and every year are the belles of the ball. Kurt takes in a shaking breath, and raises on hand to brush a tendril of hair out of his face. He probably needs more hairspray. What is he going to do when he goes out there? Should be play it friendly like Quinn, or strong like the other District One tribute?

He's jerked out of his reverie by a warm hand on his arm. He looks down to see the curly-haired tribute from District Two. Dressed in the snug, form-fitting bodyarmor that District Two manufactures, the boy looks. . .good. Brown highlights gleam in his hair, and his eyes are a warm honey-hazel.

"You might want to keep a tighter grip on your cloak," the boy says. Kurt thinks idly that the light brush of gold eyeshadow above his eyes brings out the flecks of green and amber in his eyes. He glances down at the hand, and realizes that his cloak is flapping open, exposing his bare chest and upper thigh to the world. He gasps, and graps at the flapping garment, pulling it tighter to his body. The other boy chuckles a little and winks – winks!

"It's not a bad view," the boy says. "But the audience usually likes a little something left to their imagination."

The boy has to hurry off, then, to jump on his own carriage just as it is rolling out into the arena. He leans in to the other tribute from his district – Rachel, Kurt thinks her name is – just as the chariot rolls out. He puts an arm gently around her waist, tugging her to his side, and presses a chaste kiss to the top of her forehead. Even from the tunnel below the stands, Kurt can hear the response from the audience. They go absolutely wild at the display of affection. The boy pulls back a little and waves at the audience, while the girl grins brightly and begins blowing kisses. Kurt has to cover his ears, the noise is so loud.

"Well," Mercedes grouses from beside him, "guess we all know who the fan favorites are."

It seems to take forever to get to District Eight, which is probably for the best. Standing in the wings so long, Kurt's lost a good degree of his anxiety. Besides, after District Two, there's not much to be intimidated by. There's the kid in the wheelchair, and a pair of pre-teens from District Four, a skinny emaciated kid and a ginger, and then the Asian dating pair. The guy looks strong enough, but the girl can't stop crying, just clinging to his arm as their chariot heads out beneath the scrutiny of the audiene.

And then finally, finally, their chariot is moving. Mercedes gives him a quick peck on the cheek (before they arrive in the arena, unfortunately) and then they're under the lights.

Kurt's first reflex is to squint. The lights are blindingly bright, and for a good minute he can't see anything. Mercedes hand tightens on his forearm, and he presses closer in to her familiar warmth.

The noise is deafening. He can hear chants still of "Quinn" and "Blaine" and even a strange chant of "Tike." He does not, however, hear anyone shouting his name, which is when he realizes that despite the terror striking in his heart and the sick feeling in his stomach, it is absolutely imperative that he open his eyes. So he throws his shoulders back, his chest out and his chin up before opening his eyes.

He's back, for a moment, in the sewing room of District Eight. Back sitting and chatting with his girls, until Neanderthals walk in and make snide remarks. He's back eating dinner with his dad when a glass bottle shatters and a shout of "fag" rings in through the window. He's back running his hands over the finest silk he's ever seen spun, when a blocky shoulder hits his own, sending him tumbling into a rack with such force that it's sure to leave bruises.

He'd made it through all of that with his head held high, and he puts himself back there.

But even as he's standing there, eyes blazing, nobody shouts at him. Everybody is still so focused on the other tributes that they don't even notice him and Mercedes. The girl beside him whimpers a little.

Kurt _doesn't_ like being ignored.

He wishes that Gaga had given them more clothing to wear beneath the cloaks. He knows that they would make a better spectacle if they let the fabric flow, let the colors merge and fly around them, but it would be so inappropriate. He can't. . .

_I don't mind the view_.

But maybe – maybe that's exactly what Gaga had intended. After all, she's always been a provocateur. It's not like her to create an outfit that's so sealed in, so. . .

He can hear the crowd beginning to shout Finn and Brittany's names. That is absolutely unacceptable. Number one, because they're from District Ten, which means they are _so_ below him on the totem pole. Number two, their stylist is an absolute nincompoop who dressed Britt in a cow outfit complete with udders, and forced a brassy cowbell around Finn's neck. They look like somebody's sloppy seconds, and yet they are currently outshining him. Unacceptable.

So, Kurt takes a deep breath, and makes himself vulnerable. He lifts one hand slowly to the top of his cloak. Mercedes notices the slight motion and turns to him.

"What are you doing?" he hisses.

"Getting noticed," Kurt says, before throwing the cloak over one shoulder.

There's a momentary hush in the stadium as the cloak streams out behind him. Kurt knows how it must look, the light glancing off shifting sea colors. He knows that his cheeks must be bright red, and his eyes are shiny with tears, waiting for the jeers to begin, waiting for somebody to throw a tomato. But this is his life on the line, and it's better to get a few sympathy votes than for _nobody_ to know who he is. He feels motion beside him, and notices that Mercedes has flung her cloak out behind her, too.

The lead chariot has stopped, Quinn and the other District One chariot glaring at them in open-mouthed surprise. Quinn recovers quickly, returning to her beaming smile and waves to the audience, but the boy just glares at Kurt, murder in his eyes. Rachel is hopping up and down clapping, having spotted them almost immediately. She puts a hand on the curly-haired boys' shoulder, and points toward the streaming cloaks. Kurt has to duck his head away before he reads the expression in warm, hazel eyes. After all, that had been the boy who had told him to cover up, and here Kurt was, going against what he'd been told.

Somewhere, somehow, the audience has caught up, and he hears a sudden thumping as people pound the bleachers. At first he thinks that they're yelling "hurt" and he doesn't understand why.

"oh my God," Mercedes breathes. "Kurt you're a genius!"

That's when he realizes that they're screaming his name. And he should probably turn and wave, blow kisses like Mercedes is, or at least wave. But he can't. He just can't. He doesn't hear emotion in those words, doesn't know if they're filled with admiration or hate. He stands with his spine locked, his knees unmoving. He's survived this long by not caring what other people think of him – he can't change that now.

The applause continues through District Eleven, but dies off a little when the tributes from District Twelve arrive. Kurt and Mercedes have turned the corner by now, so he can spot the new tributes as they arrive. He's almost forgotten who they are – the two volunteers, though, he remembers almost immediately. They're clothed in sparkling coal dust that snakes its way up their throats, but somehow leaves their faces startling clean. They're not wearing any make-up and there's something ethereal and terryfing about their expression. The boy is flexing his muscles and leering out at the audience, flicking them off and smirking. The girl looks fierce and angry. She's controlling the reins to the horses, and is spurring them faster than anyone else's. They look like a pair of angry devils, and Kurt shudders a little, pulling his cloak closer around his body not in embarrassment but to ward off the sudden chill.

It hasn't lasted long, their trek throughout the stadium. Usually the Opening Ceremonies only last half an hour or so – there will be a party afterwards, for all of the spectators, while in the individual districts people will just begin getting ready for bed. Kurt lets out a breath of relief when they pull back in to the tunnel, the noise of the crowd drowned out by the surrounding ground, the lights muted and then gone.

He lets out a long breath, and turns to smile at his best friend.

"Well," he says chipperly. "That wasn't so bad, right?"

Mercedes doesn't even have a chance to answer before the prep team descends on them. Kurt notices that same thing happening to all of the tributes. The District Twelve tributes stand stoically while they're rinsed off by giant hoses, bit by bit pale skin shining forth beneath the coal dust. Quinn is having her hair brushed by her prep team until it shines as golden as the other tribute's outfit. District Two is having their body-armor torn apart by little lasers and then pried off their bodies, coming off in thick, scabby pieces. Kurt notices Rachel winces as one of the lasers bites into her skin.

He and Mercedes have their cloaks ripped off them and stand for a moment, completely exposed, before warm, fluffy robes are pressed around their shoulders. Emma pops up in front of them, her eyes huge in her pale face. She's smiing, though, and she claps a little when she sees them.

"Oh, that was wonderful!" she gasps. "You both looked so beautiful. Wonderful job, children, really, wonderful."

"Yeah," the big tribute from District One says, as he and Quinn walk by toward the elevators. "Hot stuff." He then turns to Quinn and, in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone "I hear every year there's a pair of whores who sell their bodies for a sponsorship."

Kurt sucks in a deep breath, too bone-weary to retort. He doesn't have to, however, when Finn steps forward, thankfully stripped of the cowbell.

"Watch it, Karofsky," he hisses. "Save it for the Games."

Kurt glances over at his trainmate thankfully, but Finn just shrugs it off. He's thankful for the help. He doesn't need anyone standing up for him, but he's thankful anyway.

Still, as he steps into the elevator with Mercedes, ready to go to his new home for the next week, he can't help but shudder at the memory of intense hatred radiating from District One's body. He knows he's at the top of the other boys' hit list.

**AN: I have nothing to say. It's really hard to come up with outfits to wear during that ceremony. Hmmm. . . .**

**COMING SOON: Puck needs to get a little air and has an interesting. . .conversation. . .on the rooftops as the tributes get ready for their first day of training.**


	5. Noah

**AN: In honor of the return of season 3. . .an early update! Hurrah! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to the reviewers. Seeing a review is just the best motivation to keep writing. I would never stop a story due to lack of reviews, but sometimes they're a good kick in the pants. ENJOY!**

They finally leave Puck alone at around midnight. The freaky prep teams retreats back to their cave of homosexuality, Beiste wanders off to snore herself to sleep, and even Santana has bid goodnight. So now he's stuck, wide-awake due to the coffee he'd had at dinner, staring around his room.

It's nice, he thinks. The sheets are soft (and there's more than one, which is a total plus) and there are more sheets covering the window, and weird little machines that do weirdass things when he touches them. There's one that lets out a sweet drink, and another that heats up puffed pastries. Water comes out of faucets, sometimes hot and sometimes cold, depending on which button he pushes. It's all kind of freaky, actually.

He feels like a lamb being led to the slaughter, and he hates it. Why the hell are they treating him so nicely, when they're just going to throw him in the arena to die? He starts pacing around the room, and then does some push-ups to make sure his guns are in top shape. He turns on the box that streams pictures and washes his face, and does some sit-ups.

IT's been about ten minutes and he's fucking bored.

The door is locked, of course. The Capitol wouldn't want any of its precious tributes wandering around at night where they could get hurt or maimed or killed. But it's not like a pathetic lock has ever stopped Puckasaurus before, and it only takes a couple seconds jiggling it before it falls open and he steps out into the hallway.

The minute his feet touch the carpet lights appear, illuminating the hallway. Another creepy thing. He considers getting in the elevator and making a run for it, until he remembers what happens to runaways. They get their tongues cut out and then are forced to play servant to pampered Capitol assholes. He'd rather die. Besides, he can't just leave Santana. She's his best friend, and a pretty good lay, besides.

He's on the top floor, and he knows that the elevator doesn't go up any higher. He thinks that he remembers a pair of stairs at the end of the hallway, however, so he makes his way over there.

The stairs go down, obviously, but they seem to go up as well. Puck considers for a moment. It's hard to believe that the roof of the building isn't being monitored by Capitol dicks. But at least he'll be able to get outside and get some fresh air for the first time in days.

When he arrives upstairs, the cool, night air hits him like a punch to the face. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, because it feels _awesome_. He hops up.

There's a small garden on the roof, which is surprising, and wind chimes making irritating little blipping noises in the wind. Puck relaxes, for the first time in weeks.

"You're not supposed to be up here, you know."

The voice, when it comes, is soft and surprisingly girly. Puck tenses for a minute, trying to decide whether to sock the official in the face or throw her over the edge of the roof. But when he turns around, he realizes that it isn't some guard at all. It's the District One tribute.

He remembers her, of course. She's breathtakingly hot, with a tight little body that he'd love to rut against. Plus, she'd been all dolled up at the Opening Ceremonies in jewels and stuff that cost more than everything he'd ever earn in the mines back home. He bets that he could sell her hair for a few bucks, too.

"Doesn't that go for you, too, sweetcheeks?" he asks, shooting her his most charming smile. He knows it's the most charming, because it got him the most girls willing to sleep wit him. His other smiles have a slightly lower success rate.

"That's true," she admits, sticking her nose in the air and crossing her arms. "But I was here first, so I think you should leave."

Puck stares at her for a moment, considering. She's super hot, but he can already tell that she's a frigid bitch. Though in other circumstances he'd love to warm her up and see what she has under that sinfully short skirt, he thinks he's better off keeping his hands away. After all, he's going to have to kill her in a week, and he might feel bad about that if he's fucked her.

"Don't tell me what to do," Puck finally says, after too long a pause. Quinn sniffs but doesn't respond, just staring out at the lights. After a moment he goes to join her.

"I'm really going to enjoy killing you," she says when he's standing beside her.

"You better have some pretty vivid dreams then," Puck says. She turns to look at him, and he winks. "Of course, I can think of better things to dream about."

"You're repulsive," she says. "And stupid. You know that you don't have a chance of winning this, right?"

"I know," Puck says, because it's the truth. People think that he's stupid, because he thinks with his muscles and his cock most of the time, but he's not. He knows that the Games are rigged. There's a reason that there are more victors from the first two districts than the rest combined. There's a reason that District Twelve hasn't had a victor in decades. The whole point of the Games is to keep the districts in their proper places, and his is at the bottom.

"Most of you have no idea what an honor it is to be chosen," Quinn says. Puck just snorts.

"You don't know that it's a suicide mission."

"No," Quinn says. "It's proof of your value. We spend our whole lives training and preparing for this. Dave and I are the _best_. This is our moment."

Puck considers a moment. "What happens to your second best?" he asks. Quinn frowns, and glances at him.

"They usually get a job in the mayor's office," she says slowly. "Why?"

Puck just shrugs. "I figure it's a good deal," he says. "I've got a one in a hundred chance of winning, making mad money, and living like a king the rest of my life. Or I die. Better than at home. There I'd just be thrown in the mines to die anyway."

Quinn doesn't say anything. Puck doesn't look at her.

"You though. . .you're just stupid. You'd have an _awesome_ life if you weren't picked. You could get down and dirty with the mayor's son, and eat bon bons and get your hair all gussied up all the time. You're a fucking retard for wanting to be in the Games."

The slap is sudden and hard, and it _stings_. Puck has to actually blink back tears, which is embarrassing since he's been hit by a _girl_. Still, it fucking hurt.

"Don't you dare assume that you know anything about me," Quinn hisses. "And don't tell me that the Games are rigged. It's survival of the fittest, and your District never is."

Puck shrugs. "I'm just saying. The jabberjays and the tracker jackers and the mutts never go after the Careers. They attack all the people wandering in the forest. The people who aren't trained and don't get to the weapons quick enough. That sounds like it's rigged to me."

Quinn snorts, but there's a look on her face like she's thinking. "You think you're so tough," she says. Puck grins.

"I know I'm tough," he says. "I _think_ that I'm hot. And you do, too."

Quinn ignores him. Puck's beginning to think that's her default setting. Kind of like a robot.

"Prove it," she says, and at first Puck thinks that she's asking him to sleep with her. Which, even though he'd been uncertain before, he's beginning to think is a great idea, because she's super foxy and a bitch, so he'll still be down with chopping her head off later. He moves closer, and leans down so that his breath comes out hot and wet over her earlobe. She shudders a little and moves away.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Proving how sexy I am," he says. He moves a hand down between her legs. "Come on. You know you want it."

He gets slapped again. Or maybe punched, he's not really sure, he just knows that he's seeing stars and his nose is burning. "Bitch!" he gasps, grabbing at his nose.

"Prove that it's rigged," Quinn says, just standing there with her hands on her hips. "You're big, even if you are slow and dumb, and the other tribute looks like she could take someone. You two join us. Join the Careers. Prove what you're saying."

Puck glances up at her. His fingers, which had been holding his nose, feel warm and wet and he's pretty sure that his nose is bleeding. He's going to freakin' rip this girl's limbs apart and feed them to Santana. He's pretty sure that his bloodthirsty best friend will appreciate the gesture.

"Okay," he says instead. "Let's seal it the way we do in my District."

"How's that?" Quinn asks. She probably thinks that they do something gross and barbaric, like spit in their hands and shake (which is actually the practice – even Puck thinks it's kind of weird.) But he doesn't have any moral code to speak of, and rght now there's only one thing that he wants.

"We deal in kisses, baby mama," he says smoothly. "Lay one on me and you've got yourself a badass deal."

She looks at him for a long moment, and Puck thinks that she's not going to do it. She's going to play goody-two shoes and stick with the District Two hobbits, and he and Santana are going to have to fend for themselves in the woods. Which is fine, it's what he'd expected the moment he volunteered. He doesn't expect either of them to make it out alive.

"Okay," Quinn says, and before Puck gets a chance to digest that, she's pressed her hot, pretty, District One lips against his own.

He sees fireworks.

_Fuck_, he thinks when they pull apart. She's grinning at him, lips a little swollen, and one eyebrow cocked. Her eyes are green, he realizes, and swears again. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

"Not bad for a coal miner," she says. "Better get some sleep. Training starts tomorrow, and I don't want my allies to fall behind."

She walks to the stairs with an extra swish in her step, and Puck watches he hungrily as she descends.

He kind of hopes that she trips and dies on her way back to her room, because he's pretty sure that when they enter the arena, he's going to have a little bit of difficulty stabbing her to death or throwing a boulder on her head, or whatever.

He never should have left his room.

**AN: What? Quick? Where did that come From? Don't get me wrong, I loved Pizes, but we all knew it was too shallow to last. . .**

**COMING SOON: Rachel is determined to prove that her star shines the brightest during training, while Blaine has a run-in with a familiar face and Finn poisons himself.**


	6. Rachel

**AN: Phew. Sorry for the late update, life's been cr-azy. Anyway, enjoy. Things are beginning to get a little intense now. . .**

Rachel is a little irked that Blaine refuses to wear the outfit that she's carefully picked out for him. It's especially irritating, as he's the one who came up with their strategy of appearing as star-crossed lovers. Well, to be fair, he still thinks that they're acting as high school sweethearts, but she knows, with her innate flair fir the dramatic, that unrequited love will garner them more sponsorships.

Either way, the point remains that they are supposed to look like they belong together, and since Blaine is insisting on wearing his District Two training uniform instead of the delightfully cozy grey jumpsuits provided by the Capitol, she simply doesn't see how that goal can be accomplished.

"Don't worry so much," He chides, talking around a mouthful of biscuit. "It's only going to be the Gamemakers and the other trainees today. The media won't see us, and the media are the ones that have to believe in our intense passion."

"You're right, of course," Rachel says a little huffily, helping herself to a Very Berry smoothie. "I just believe that method acting is the best manner of preparing oneself for a performance.

Blaine just passes her a platter of eggs.

They've concocted a plan, together with their mentor, Shelby. Rachel had just assumed that they would ally themselves with the tributes from District One and District Four, as they were certain to be properly trained. Blaine had only smiled a little indulgently at the suggestion and Shelby had shaken her head.

"No," she'd said. "Blaine hasn't trained to be a tribute. The Careers won't want anything to do with you two – or they shouldn't, anyway, if we hold the cards right. Still. . .you'll want to pick strong allies."

"What about District Twelve?" Blaine had suggested. "They look strong."

Shelby had nodded. "District Twelve should work," she'd mused. "Or maybe Ten, with that tall boy and the blond girl. I liked the look of District Eleven's tribute, too."

"What about District Eight?" Rachel had asked. "I appreciate the power and visual display of their entrance at the Opening Ceremonies."

Blaine's smile had grown, and Shelby had sighed. "Distict Eight is hopeless," she'd said. "They're brought up sitting on their asses all day and the most manual labor they've ever done is turning on a sewing machine. I'd recommend District Seven – the lumberjacks are usually physically strong – but. . ."

"They seem emotionally unstable," Rachel had said.

True, she'd been annoyed at continuously having her ideas shot down, but she was willing to admit that there was value in what Shelby and Blaine had to say. Now, however, is the time for her to begin showing her value to the team.

"Hold on, Rach," Blaine says, grabbing her arm just before they walk in. "Let's go over the plan again."

Rachel sighs and rolls her eyes. She doesn't see why they all insist on treating her like a child. She is perfectly capable of being devious and underhanded – after all, she'd been chosen as the True Tribute of District Two, hadn't she?

"We're to befriend the tributes from Districts Ten, Eleven, and Twelve," she recites, "despite the fact that with my superior training and your more than adequate physicality we should be grouped along with the Careers."

"Not that," Blaine says with a small smile and a roll of his eyes. "I know you aren't stupid, Rachel, and we talked about that over breakfast. I mean during the training sessions."

"Right," Rachel says. "We're to work on trap-laying, camoflauge, and basic survival skills since they are our weakest skill-set. Also, you are to keep singing to a minimum."

"Moi?" Blaine asks, his eyes wide and his hand splayed out against his chest. "What about you, Ms. Berry? As I recall, you insisted in staring in every production of our high school."

"True," Rachel concedes, unable to keep the wicked smile off her face. "I, however, do not find the need to sing about everything single trivial activity I engage in throughout the day." When Blaine just continues to look at her, she can't help it, and begins to sing a familiar ditty.

"_I'm brushing my teeth, getting ready for the day, then I'll wash my face, clean my pores away. . ._"

"What?" Blaine glances around nervously. "I don't. . .I mean. . .I didn't. . ."

"You sing it every morning," Rachel points out. "To the point where I now have it memorized. Against my better judgment."

Blaine sighs, before opening his mouth and. . .

"_My headband! It's my headband!_"

Rachel has the dignity and grace to blush but do nothing else. Blaine shrugs.

"Okay," he says. "Neither of us will sing today."

That promise turns out to be easier said than done. They've been at the trap station for hours now, and Blaine is absolutely hopeless. He keeps getting the snare tied in knots, so it doesn't open anywhere and nothing can get inside it. Rachel is hopelessly bored, and she wants to start socializing with the other tributes to work on their allies, and. . .

"No, no, no," she almost jumps at the lilting sound of a new voice, just over her shoulders. A pair of slender hands reach out and adjust Blaine's grip on a pair of vines. With a deft twist, two sticks fall into place and Blaine triumphantly ties a knot. Rachel finally turns around to see who the new visitor is.

She'd assumed, based on the high voice and the perfect manicure that it was a girl, but instead she finds herself face to face with the half-naked boy she only vaguely remembers from the Opening Ceremonies. She doubts that she would remember him at all, except that his cloak had come undone halfway through, and she'd found it impossible to look anywhere other than at him and the half-naked girl at his side.

The boy, meanwhile, is completely ignoring her, focused instead on Blaine.

"Thanks," Blaine says, smiling his most charming smile. "I'm hopeless at this."

"Yes, well, it's the least I can do after the help you gave me at the opening," the boy says. He shoves Rachel over and sits down beside Blaine.

"Help?" Blaine laughs self-deprecatingly. "It looked like you did best when you ignored me."

Rachel rolls her eyes. She's known about Blaines' sexuality ever since they were both fourteen. She and Jesse had just broken up (for the fifteenth time, she believes) and she'd determined to get over her childhood boyfriend. Unfortunately, when she'd come up for air from her first kiss with Blaine he'd just stared at her with an unreadable expression on his face before finally saying "Yup. Definitely gay. Thanks for helping me figure that out, Rachel!"

So, yes, she knows that Blaine likes boys, and she knows that they have dissimilar taste. Still, does that mean that he has to blatantly flirt with other guys while hanging out with his fake, Hunger Games girlfriend?

She doesn't have to stand for that kind of disrespect.

"Blaine, I'll be heading over to the edible food section," she says, permitting just the perfect amount of haughtiness into her voice. "You may join me when you finally learn to tie a knot."

"Sure thing, Rach," Blaine says, though he still has his eyes trained on the District Eight boy.

Rachel huffs and storms off.

There's only one other person at the edible food station – the tall boy from District Ten. Which is perfect, really, since he's one of the ones that Shelby has okay'ed. She sidles up beside him, and watches as he puts a berry in his mouth.

"Wha – no!" the man heading up the station lunges forward and begins slapping at the tribute's face. "Not that one, you big oaf! That one's poisonous!"

The boy winces and spits it out. "Then why'd you let me almost eat it?"

Rachel peers curiously at the mangled remains of the blue berry.

"Ah," she says insightfully. "A boisinbur. Only the skin is poisonous, fortunately."

The boy turns to gape at her, and she notices that his lips are stained slightly blue from the various berry juices.

"Rachel Berry," she says proudly, holding out her hand to shake. "District Two tribute."

"Uh. . ." the boy wipes his hands hurriedly against his sides, before reaching one out. It's absolutely huge, about twice the size of one of Rachel's hands, but his grip is surprisingly gentle. "My name's Finn. I'm from District. . ."

"Ten, yes, I know," Rachel says. "Though your district does not traditionally do very well in the games, I would like to offer you my friendship and good will. May the odds be in your favor."

"Um, thanks?"

"That being said, you certainly won't last very long if you confuse a boisinbur for a blueberry."

"I'll try not to?"

Rachel is moderately impressed by his ability to turn every sentence into a question. That's the only reason that she continues by his side until lunch. Really.

The lunchtime meal is set up as a buffet, long rows of tables holding steaming food and ice cold dishes. Rachel carefully chooses her meal for ultimate nutritional value. Blaine, she notices, seems to be delighting in choosing the fattiest, greasiest, most disgusting foods possible. For that matter, so does Finn.

"If you eat like that you're never going to succeed in the Games," Rachel hisses to the other tribute from her district. Blaine just lifts one triangular shaped eyebrow and winks.

"We've been over this, Rachel. The only reason that I'm here is to make sure that _you_ make it through the Games. I have no intention of being the victor."

With that, Blaine turns and walks away toward the table filled with drinks. Rachel can't do anything but stare at his retreating back. Of course, that was what Blaine had said when he first volunteered during the Reaping, but she'd assumed that it was just a heat of the moment type of thing. She'd never realized that he actually meant those words.

She finally collects herself, and hurries after him, but there's a little niggling doubt in her stomach now. Blaine is her best friend after all – while she doesn't love him the way that the media believes, she does care for him very deeply. There's something unsettling about the way that he's treating the Games as a suicide mission. She sits down beside him at one of the long tables. They are joined almost immediately by Finn and Kurt. A moment later the blond boy from District 11 joins them.

"So this afternoon are our individual sessions with the Gamemakers, right?" Kurt asks, delicately eating a vegetable-loaded salad. Rachel nods in approval of his choices. There appears to be some tofu in his salad, as well, providing the necessary dose of vegetables. Finn nods his head eagerly.

"So they just want us to, like, do stuff?" he asks around a mouthful of French fries. Rachel sighs in exasperation.

"They've been observing us all day," Sam, the District 11 tribute, says, pointing at the huddled old men in the corner. "Why do we have to meet with them individually?"

"Strategy," Blaine and Rachel say at the same time. They glance at one another, smiling for a moment, before Blaine inclines his head and Rachel continues with the explanation. "Some tributes naturally hold back during training," she says. "That way nobody knows what they're capable of. Of course, others. . ." she nods her head toward Puck, Karofsky, and Lauren Zizes, the massive girl from District Three – all sitting together, and all of whom had spent the morning showing off their impressive strength, "would prefer to intimidate."

"Anyway," Blaine says, cutting in, "the individual sessions are a chance to show the Gamemakers what you're capable, without also alerting the other tributes to any skills or abilities you might have."

"Oh," Finn looks troubled. "I don't really have any special abilities. Except that I can get hit pretty hard without being hurt."

"Um. . .I can sing?" Sam suggests.

"I can do anything you can do better," a blond girl – Rachel vaguely recognizes her as the other tribute from Finn's district – says, as she sits down beside her. Her lunch plate is filled entirely with marshmallows.

"You can do anything," Blaine says sincerely. "You can throw weights, or run, or somersault. . .anything, really."

"And what are you planning to do, oh master of the games?" Kurt says, a little sarcastically. Blaine just shrugs.

"I dunno," he says. "I'm not really good at anything. . .maybe I'll just dance. My grade school teacher said I'm pretty good."

"She said you're enthusiastic," Rachel corrects. She turns to face the other tributes. "She said that _I_ was good."

"Right. . ." Blaine says, a little wryly. Rachel doesn't miss the way that his eyes flicker over to Kurt's. She also doesn't miss the way the other boy smiles toothlessly, his eyes sparkling.

Let them have their fun, she thinks fiercely. She's trained her whole life for the Games, and she'll show them then just who Rachel Berry is.

After lunch they are all brought to a large, empty room to await their private sessions with the Gamemakers. David Karofsky goes first, as the male tribute from District One, followed by Quinn Fabray. Blaine is third.

"Hey," Rachel says, reaching out and grabbing his wrist before he goes in. "You are absolutely amazing," she says, sincerely. "Just show them how fantastic you are, okay? No games. This matters."

"Of course it does, Rach," Blaine says with a charming grin, before walking in. Rachel just sits back to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Usually the private sessions last fifteen to thirty minutes. Rachel glances at her watch. It's now been almost an _hour_.

"What the fuck is that hobbit doing?" Santana asks, idly shaping her nails with a long, blood red emory board. "I needs to get me a little action."

"Maybe he decided to take a nap," Brittany says, her voice sounding completely serious.

It's only a few minutes later that Rachel is finally allowed in.

She's a little surprised by the room. There's a table where the Gamemakers are sitting – all familiar, old faces, seen at every year's Games. She had thought that they had a new Gamemaker this year – she vaguely remembers pictres of a pretty young woman – but she's only facing old men, so that must have been a false, bit of yellow journalism. They're all watching her with arch expressions on their faces. She takes a deep breath, before smiling at them with a bright, charming expression.

This is what she's been training for her entire life.

Xxx

That night she, Blaine, Shelby, and their stylists gather in front of the television to watch the announcing of the scores. Blaine has resolutely refused to tell her what he did while in his private session, even after she'd explained in detail, her own performance (which included gymnastics, shadowboxing, weightlifting, and of course, her exquisite singing).

There's no extravagance to the proceedings: nothing as glamorous as the Opening ceremonies, or even with the pomp and circumstance of the Reaping. Instead, it's a simple program displaying a picture of a tribute, alongside his name and score. The simplicity has a drama of its own, and Rachel finds herself absolutely breathless with anticipation. Most Careers receive somewhere in the 8 – 10 range of scores, and she will be absolutely devastated if she doesn't score similarly. Of course, she's really shooting for an 11, which is exceptionally high (even Rachel Berry doesn't dream of the unheard of 12).

Dave Karofsky's heavyset features are shown first. A moment later a number flickers at the bottom: 9 Not surprising.

"Well, we knew that," Shelby says soothingly. "No need to worry yet."

No need to worry, Rachel reminds herself. After all, the numbers don't mean anything. . .they're just predictive.

Then again. . .the predictions usually come true.

Quinn Fabray gets a 10, which is a bit more surprising. Then again, Rachel can appreciate the way that a tiny frame can result in extraordinary results. After all, she herself is below average height, yet she knows that her years of training and single-minded determination make her a vicious foe.

Then Blaine's face comes up, mouth gently smiling and eyes smoldering.

"Oh," Rachel says in surprise. "Blaine, that is a very appealing picture of you."

"Sexy," Shelby says with a smile. "You'll get yourself plenty of female sponsors just based on that photo."

Blaine blushes a little, and Rachel reaches out to ruffle his curls. Her hand, however, shifts quickly to a vicelike grip when his score flashes on the screen.

12.

"How did you do that?" she screams, hurling herself at him. She's not angry or scared. . .she mostly just feels horribly betrayed. He's been pretending that he doesn't have any incredible skills, that there's nothing he has to show the Gamemakers, and here he's gotten the highest score in the history of the Games. The highest score _possible_.

"What did you_ do_?" she screams, distracted enough that she doesn't even glance at the television for the rest of the program. (Well, that's not entirely true – she does sneak a glance at her own score – a highly respectable 8) before glaring at her best friend.

"I didn't want to tell you before the scores," Blaine says. "I knew it would either get me a high score or a low one. I didn't want you to freak out if it wasn't necessary."

"What did you do?"

"I. . .um. . .I kind of killed a Gamemaker," Blaine says. Rachel's mouth falls open, and Shelby gasps in surprise. "I told them that I don't have any talents. . .just dancing," Blaine tries to explain. "And then I told them that I'm not particularly good without a partner. And I talked the newest Gamemaker – the woman – into dancing with me. And then I broke her neck."

Rachel reaches out and slaps him. "What were you _thinking_?" she asks. "They could have killed you. They could have kicked you out of the Games. How could you _do_ such a thing?"

Blaine glares at her then, his eyes cold and dark. She shivers a little, because she's never seen him looking so angry before. Even Shelby backs a little away from him.

"I'm only good at one thing, Rachel," he says. "And that's charming idiots into thinking I'm harmless. I had to make sure that they understood – I can play nice, but I'm not."

Rachel continues to gape at him as he stands up, and brushes off his pants. "I don't expect to win the Games," he says harshly. "I don't even want to. I couldn't live with myself if I let you die. But I won't be killed by a stupid _kid_. And now everyone knows it."

He leaves the room. Rachel, not sure what else to do, just turns her attention back to the screen. It's flickering through the very last of the tributes, by this point: District Twelve. Both Santana and Noah receives scores of 9. The announcer comments that this is the most dangerous group of tributes ever.

Rachel takes a deep breath and begins to cry.

**AN: Blaine is a badass! Who saw that coming? Hmm. . .sounds like there might be a little more to Blainey-kins than we all knew. . .**

**COMING SOON: The interviews! Some tributes shine (uh, Quinn and Blaine, duh); some tributes fail (Brittany?) and everyone gets ready for their last night before entering the arena. **


	7. Santana 2

**AN: So, I guess the more badass my AU Blaine gets, the more whipped show Blaine gets. Oh well. Thanks for the awesome reviews, alerts, etc. It makes it a lot easier to stay motivated when people are responding! Also, as a warning, may be a bit before the next update. I want to map out how the Games go before I begin that chunk. **

Santana waits. The room is entirely empty – grey walls and white ceiling, with mirrors along one wall. She hates it.

Still, that's been her life for the last week. She feels like she's sold out her entire district – acting tough in the Opening Ceremonies, snarling and growling throughout training sessions, when really all that she wants to do is curl up in a ball and cry. She misses her mom, and the kids. She misses the Seam, and District 12, and as sick and twisted as her life had been, she misses it.

And, as stupid as it sounds, she misses Noah. Her best friend has been harsh and short ever since the train ride. They barely talk to each other, and when they do it's all about strategy or the Games, or. . .or. . .

But it doesn't matter, she reminds herself fiercely. These are the Hunger Games, and at some point she's going to have to become the heartless bitch that she's been pretending to be. At some point she's going to have to kill all the other kids that she's been meeting at the training sessions – pretty Quinn, sweet Brittany, even Noah. (Then again, she'll get the chance to off the irritating brunette from District Two, and that will be pretty fantastic).

She thinks she'll be okay in the arena – she was born to fight, to scrap her way through the toughtest situations. But today. . .well, she doesn't really know how she's going to get through the interviews. She's never been good at reining in her temper, and just sitting there, silent, while the stuck up snots from the Career Districts talk is going to be nearly impossible.

Beiste had tried to talk them through it the earlier night. That had been a disaster, resulting in Santana screaming and Puck closing down.

"You have to have a strategy," Beiste had insisted. "Noah, what are you –"

"Stop calling me that!"

"Stop calling you what?" Beiste had seemed genuinely confused, and Santana kind of was, too.

"Noah," he'd said harshly, standing up and pushing back from the table. He'd grabbed his glass of water and thrown it against the wall, where it had exploded into sharp, crystalline shards. "Noah's gone," he'd hissed. "Puck's the one going into the arena."

And then he'd left, leaving Santana speechless for one of the first times in her life, and Beiste looking utterly gobsmacked.

"What the fuck was that?"

And now. . .now she hasn't seen her best friend, and she's not even sure that she likes him anymore. She's been pretending, but it seems like Noah – Puck, that is, has genuinely transformed into the bloodthirsty animal that the Games require. He's the one who wants them joining the Careers – he's the one who had insisted that they show off at all of the training sessions, that they try to intimidate their opponents. Santana, admittedly, mostly just wanted to wallow in her misery, which is perhaps not the best strategy.

And now it's the day of the interviews. The day when she's supposed to be tough and sexy, and win herself some sponsors. Which is frankly just _stupid_ because everyone knows that the blond Career will get all the sponsors. She's pretty and scored higher from the Gamemakers. So really, Santana may as well give up.

She doesn't have much more time to think about it, however, as her stylists rush in and begin fitting her for the interviews. She doesn't really know what to expect: she'd been nearly naked for the opening ceremony, just covered in coal dust, but she's relatively certain that the interviews are always more demure. Sure enough, all that the stylists do is brush her hair until it falls in gentle, shining waves, and paint her lips a bright red. She's given a form-fitting dress to wear, a heavy material that accentuates all of her curves, with a cut that falls in a sweeping pattern nearly to her navel.

She wonders if she should tape her tits in, to make sure they don't pop free.

She doesn't have a chance to ask, however, as they're pushing her hurriedly out into the hallway. She finds Puck without much difficulty – his stylist has also kept him in simple black, though he wears a blood-red tie against his chest, and his eyes are ringed in kohl.

"Can you believe this shit?" he asks when she comes to stand beside him. When she just stares, he points at his eyes. "They've got me dolled up like a girl."  
>Santana just grins and winks, because this is a glimpse of her best friend again. "Makes your eyes pop."<p>

"Whatever," Noah huffs, flexing his arm. "I really just want my guns to pop."

That's all the time they have to talk, as the tunnel opens at the front and the tributes begin walking out to the thunderous applause of the crowd. Santana can't help but roll her eyes – it's so dumb, all of these strangers cheering for a bunch of kids. They don't even _know_ us, she thinks. They wouldn't be cheering if they did. You don't cheer when people you love are being sent to die.

Caesar is doing the interviews, as always. Santana looks at him critically as she takes her seat – the last year he'd had his skin tinted light red, and his hair was bright as flames. That had been the same year that the tributes were sent to the desert, completely without water. She wonders if his appearance might indicated what the terrain will be.

If so, she's not smart enough to figure it out. He has a teardrop patterned tattoed onto one cheek, and his hair is a riot of colors. He also has a series of nose rings, and his eyebrows have been either waxed or shaved off. If someone walked around the Seam like that, he'd get his ass handed to him. As it is, Santana's pretty sure that the presenter is the height of fashion in the Capitol.

He spends a few minutes warming up the audience, before pulling out his timer (three minutes a tribute and no more). He calls Quinn, as the female tribute from District One.

Santana knows that she has to be stoic and calm. After all, the cameras will do cutaway reaction shots of all the tributes. Still, she can't help but roll her eyes as Quinn flirts shamelessly with Caesar, winks at the audience, and positions her body just so, to make her boobs bigger and his hips smaller. At least, Santana figures, it's not making her any more interesting. At least, not until Caesar mentions her high training score, at which point there's a hush over the audience.

"There's a lot of things about me people don't know," Quinn responds, her tone suddenly cold and deadly. She then turns and winks at the audience. "You'll just have to tune in to find out my secrets."

And that's it. The audience swallows it, hook line and sinker, all smiling and cheering. Quinn receives a near standing ovation. Dave Karofsky follows her, and responds almost entirely in grunts and shrugs. It works, of course, because he's the biggest guy on the stage, and his sheer bulk alone will earn him sponsors. Santana shivers. She's scrappy, but she doesn't think she'd like to come up against him in a dark alley.

The irritating hobbit is up next, all cheerful optimism and self-confident swagger. It's disgusting, and Santana's pretty sure that she throws up a little in her mouth. The audience seems a little uncertain, too. The hobbit's boyfriend smiles gently throughout the whole thing, his eyes shining with pride.

Well, at least they each have a weakness, Santana thinks, as the hobbit sits down and her equally short boyfriend takes the stand.

Except – wait a minute – Santana's a closeted lesbian and a judgmental bitch, so she catches things. Such as the little glance the boy – Blaine – makes toward the District Eight tribute before taking the microphone. And she definitely, definitely notices the way that District Eight is checking out the curly-haired kids ass. Her gaydar is making all kinds of irritating beep noises in her head. Suddenly, the interviews have gotten a lot more interesting. She leans forward in her seat, forgetting for a moment that the cameras are still on her, that the audience can no doubt read every expression in her face.

"So," Caesar drawls slowly, "should I be afraid of standing next to you? A 12 in the training sessions. . .that's never happened in the history of the Games."

Blaine just smiles charmingly and shrugs. "I guess I'm just a diamond in the rough," he says, a little self-deprecatingly. "Seriously, though, it's nice to know that someone has faith in me."

"Does that mean you're now considering yourself a contender?"

"No," Blaine responds shortly. He glances back at the hobbit. "Like I said when I volunteered. I'm only here for one reason, and that's to make sure that Rachel makes it out of here alive." He turns back to the audience, but Santana totally catches the brief spark of electricity between him and District Eight.

She doesn't know why the fire alarms aren't going off, the two of them are so flaming.

The audience, of course, doesn't notice anything, and just begin to make "aww" noises. Santana gags a little, until she feels Noah's sharp elbow in her side.

"So what will happen at the end of the Games, then?" Caesar asks. "Let's say you're successful. We come to the last day and it's just you and Rachel. Do you make her. . ."

"No," Blaine cuts in. He closes his eyes, and sets his shoulders back. "I would never ask her to do that. It would break her heart."

"Then how. . ."

"I'll take care of it," Blaine says. His words are barely audible, but the entire arena is silent as he says them. Santana's pretty sure that she could hear a pin drop. So she pulls a bobbypin from her hair and inconspicuously drops it. Sure enough, she hears the dull ping as it hits the wood floor of the stage.

Blaine still has a minute left, but it seems like Caesar doesn't know what else to say. The boy just stands there, eyes closed, mouth slightly open for thirty seconds, before opening his eyes and peering out at the audience. Santana can't see his face directly – he's facing away, but the cameras are trained in, and she watches the play on the large tv across the way. His eyes are wet and glossy and heartbreakingly honest. She has the sudden desire to pledge money to him, to petition the Capitol to allow two victors to win, for the first time ever, to. . .

But she's just being stupid.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says, with only twenty seconds left to go. "I didn't mean to dampen the enthusiasm. But Rachel is my life. So please. . .don't send me sponsorships because you think I'm brave, or noble. Send them to Rachel."

And then he nods and sits down. Santana bites her lip, trying to catch him making another gay gesture to a boy, but he's completely composed this time. He sits down beside the other District Two tributes, who promptly grabs his hand and burrows her face into his shoulder, shaking with silent sobs.

Really, they should have saved District Two for last. Nobody can go on after those two.

But go on they do, as Lauren stands up from District Three. She walks up to Caesar, and then, unbelievably, pulls the microphone away from him.

"So, listen up, peeps," Lauren says. "My name's Lauren Zizes, and I'm here to win this thing. I don't need to answer no dumb questions. I'll just tell you what you need to know. I'm the District Three wrestling champion. Cham – pi – on. Which means I'm pretty much gonna run this whole thing. So if you want to bet on a winner, bet on me. 'Cuz you know Blondie's all fluff and no substance, and the suicide sisters there ain't gonna make it past the cornucopia. I let my rep precede me, and I'mma say this to all the tributes. . ." she turns around at that, and glares at all of them. "You're going down. Yeah, that's right. You've just been Zized."

She then hands the microphone back to Caesar and sits down.

Poor wheelchair kid has to go next, and he lamely tries to tell everyone not to count him out just because he's in a chair. Then Caesar reminds him (more gently than necessary, really) that he has the lowest score in the training rounds – a measley 2 – and wheelchair kid doesn't really have anything to say to that.

The lumberjack boy tries to sound tough and strong, but he doesn't emote as well as Blaine, and the love story doesn't carry over as well. Which is pathetic, Santana thinks, since this dude's straight whereas Blaine is as queer as a two-headed penny. The girl lumberjack just stands and cries.

Then it's District Eight, and Santana sits up again. The girl goes first, and gives some kind of spiel about girl power and being strong and whatever. Then she sits down, and the fairy boy stands up.

"So," Caesar says, "That was quite a display that you put on during the Opening Ceremonies."

Kurt considers for a moment, before answering.

"My entire life I've been different," Kurt finally says. "People have tried to tell me that being different is wrong – that I should just conform. I guess at the Opening Ceremonies – that was my way of saying that I'm done trying to blend in. I am fabulous just the way I am. I was born this way, and I'm not ashamed."

Santana yawns. It's nothing much different than the other speeches. Until, that is, she notices Blaine staring raptly at the kids mouth and – oh, interesting – the hobbit smiling at Blaine.

So she knows that her boyfriend is gay. Santana wishes she were at home watching this, so she could really enjoy all of the backstabbing and bloodbath that is sure to result from this. Unfortunately, she's going to have to instigate some of that bloodbath, which is _not_ a pleasant prospect.

Kurt goes on, a little longer, about gay pride, before sitting down. A few other tributes go, and Santana's beginning to get bored. She can tell that the audience is, too. It's hard not to, with the same speeches over and over again. District pride, trying to be brave, blah blah blah. It's all the same thing, over and over again.

Until District Ten stands up. And up, and up. Santana chokes a little, because the girl has the longest, most beautiful legs she's ever seen.

"So, Brittany," Caesar says, falling comfortably into conversational patter. "How are you doing today?"

The girl considers for a long moment, before leaning forward with a very serious expression on her face. "Yes," she says.

Santana can't help it. She laughs.

"Okay. . .so. . ." Caesar is floundering, which is unusual. "How are you liking the Capitol?"

Another serious minute, before Brittany answers, "Yes."

"Ahhh," Caesar smiles, apparently catching on to something. "Are you planning on winning these Games?"

Brittany seems more confident this time as she responds "Yes."

And things are smooth sailing after that. Caesar asks yes or no questions, all of which should end in yes, and by the end Brittany is smiling, all rainbows, unicorns, and gay puppies shooting glitter out of their asses.

Santana is captivated.

She stares at the blond long after she's taken her seat, and is caught staring when Caesar finally calls her to the microphone. Her stomach drops as she stands beside him.

"Hello, Santana," he says breezily. "Let's cut to the chase. District Twelve is known as the Volunteer District now. Tell us about the Reaping."

Santana drops her lower lip, and tries to find Beiste in the crowd. Her mentor had convinced her that she would be asked about training, about her high score, about her chances in the Games. She'd been told to expect questions about District Twelve's normal dismal performance and how she and Noah would turn it around. She was not prepared to answer questions about her family.

"Um. . .we. . .we have a system, in District Twelve," she says finally. "Tesserae. You can buy food with it, you just have to put your name in the drawing for each one. So I've been buying tesserae for years. I think I have, like, twenty-two slips. I wasn't surprised to be chosen."

The crowd is relatively silent, and they seem to actually be listening to her. She can see confused looks on expression – these are people who have never considered having to risk their lives for food. Caesar is shaking his head, minutely, but she ignores him.

"But Jesus. . .he's my little brother. It's his first year entering his name and. . ." Santana pauses for a minute, gathering herself. She won't cry, but remembering that day calls back panic and fear. She trades it for anger and glares out at the crowd. "I would have taken his place in a heartbeat," she says. "I would have taken any of their places. Luisa or Xiomara. . .I _did_. I bought their freedom with tesserae, and now you're asking me to buy their safety with my life."

Caesar tries to tug the microphone back, but Santana won't let him. She clutches it and continues to glare out everyone.

"You make us work day in and day out to support your lifestyles, your excesses. The food I've had here. . .it would be enough to feed my district for a week. And then once a year you set us free to kill one other. Kids. Children. Well, we're not Children in District Twelve – we're forced out of that when we work to make money, scrounge for food, put our names on little pieces of paper to serve you. But I'm not a pawn in these Games.

"I'm a fighter. You might not want to see a District Twelve tribute win, but I have a family back home who need me. I plan on heading back."

"Well," Caesar says, finally wresting the microphone back. "That's. . .great. Let's move on then, shall we?"

His eyes are darting back and forth frantically, glancing especially at the Peacemakers. He's terrified. Good. He should be.

Puck goes up last.

"Tell us about. . ."

But then Puck's ignoring him. He doesn't even bother to take the microphone. He just peers straight across the audience, at the box where the President sits.

"It was this or the mines," he says. "I'll take this any day." And then he lifts his hand, and points at the presidential box. "Fuck the Games," he says, clear as day ."And fuck President Snow."

**AN: Oh, Puck. I've got to be honest, I like him being so pissy.**

**COMING SOON: The Cornucopia = vast amounts of death, we find out who the Tributes are, and the Games get underway.**


	8. Quinn 2

**AN: I'm ba-ack! Sorry for the delay. Also, the rest of the chapters will probably be a bit shorter than the earlier ones. Be prepared for carnage. Death number one! (P.S. thanks for all of the kind reviews. Also, if there are any opinions on who should die or live, let me know. I already know who the ULTIMATE winner is, but I'm willing to compromise on how long the other characters survive). **

"Pull up the hood, yes, just like that, dear. . ."

Quinn rolls her eyes as her stylists dart around her. They're lacing up her boots so tight that it hurts, insisting that it's necessary. They've shoved her hands into two pairs of gloves, wedged warm wool in everywhere and nearly strangled her with a scarf muffler. She obediently pulls the hood up and they sigh, stepping back.

Two middle-aged women, neither pretty, and they're standing there, just wringing there hands and bawling. It's moments like this when Quinn _really_ hates the Games. She feels oddly on display in her wintry get-up, already beginning to sweat beneath the layers of wool and leather. She's almost willing to welcome the cold, because in here's it's humid and stifling. Her breath is already dampening the muffler and everything reeks.

A bell rings then, abruptly, shattering the women's sobbing and clearly reminding them of where they are. They both straighten and begin guiding Quinn down an empty hallway. She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and throws off their arms.

Appearances are everything. Admittedly, she'd been nervous in the transport ride earlier, shaking a little and clutching at Dave's arm with more force than was strictly necessary. Her face had been white as she'd put on her uniform for the Games. She hadn't slept, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes, but that had all been covered up with make-up, and none of it had really mattered because there weren't cameras around. But now, as she walks to take her place in the arena, she has to prepare herself.

This is a Game that she can't afford to lose.

Her stylists say one last, quick good-bye, before darting back into the tunnel. A metal door closes with a loud bang, and Quinn takes the last few steps to her dais.

She's till enclosed by glass, and can still feel the warmth of the building behind her. But she an see the Arena now, can see the shapes and forms of the other tributes taking their positions. She blinks once, twice, three times before she can finally face into the Arena without squinting and wincing. Everything is white – bright, glaring white, and she's certain she's never seen it like this before. There's snow in the winter in District One, but not often with their temperate climate, and never much. Still, she recognizes the soft white blanket that covers the ground.

Right now there must not be wind, because the snow isn't drifting or blowing, but she can already imagine some of the tricks that the Gamemakers must have up their sleeves. She's suddenly incredibly thankful for the too-tight boots and the choking wool muffler. She sets her chin.

There's already a plan, of course. The Careers have discussed it, as much as it needs discussing. It's the same plan used every year. Get to the Cornucopia first, get a weapon, and then kill anyone else who tries to get close. A strange, niggling sensation takes up residence in Quinn's stomach. This is her least favorite part, and she already knows that she won't be good at it. She's ruthless and hard and ready to win, but she doesn't really want to stab anyone. Blood is kind of gross.

That, however, is exactly what she has to be prepared to face in the arena, because the audience loves blood. There's no fun in tributes dying slowly and agonizingly from poison or starvation. Strangulation is a little better, but not much, and there are almost never any guns because that's too quick and painless.

Even from a distance, she can see the glinting of metal on the pile of goods that comprise the Cornucopia. She knows they must be knives.

There's no warning before the glass doors suddenly slide open, and a rush of frigid air flies at her face. She sucks in a quick, harsh break, almost choking at the warm, wet wool that is suddenly clogging up her throat, her tongue, little fibers catching in her teeth. She glances to the left and sees that Dave has shoved his muffler down and is grimacing into the wind. His nose is already red, and tears are streaming from his eyes, but he looks utterly terrifying.

There's a gunshot.

It's immediate pandemonium. The Asians are the first ones running, grabbing hands and pulling each other with grace across the snowscape. They're the first to move, but they're running _away_ from the Cornucopia, so Quinn ignores them. They're unimportant.

Her feet are finally moving, muscles remembering all of the exercises and practices that they've been through. She has to reach the weapons early. She's tiny and delicate looking, and if she doesn't get the high ground and something that she can throw, she'll be ripped into pieces. As her feet sink, ankle-deep into the snow, she realizes that she's not going to be first. Not by a long shot.

The two District Two tributes are almost there already. The girl, hideous bangs flopping against her forehead, is only feet away, her gaze fixated on a luridly orange backpack. That's fine. Quinn is fine with them taking a few bags before fleeing into the woods. Dave and Puck can round them up later, after they'd found the best weapons and the warmest clothing, and started a fire. The boy, on the other hand, has his head tilted upward, looking at something on the very top of the heap. Quinn follows his eyes, and in doing so notices that he's not the only one fixated on the object. The big girl from District Three, slow-moving but inexorable is glancing at it. The blond kid with massive lips and the freakishly tall boy. Noah and Santana.

It's a tent.

Rachel has reached the cornucopia by now, the first one by some miracle. Quinn berates herself for forgetting that the girl is a threat. She's from District Two, after all, she's been trained to be a Career. They shouldn't have forgotten about her just because the boy is so hapless and tiny. They should have won her over.

It's too late now, though, as she flings the straps over her shoulder, and lunges forward to grab something shiny and metallic. "Let's go, Blaine!" she yells, before spinning on her heel and heading toward the woods. The boy ignores her, flinging himself onto the Cornucopia, using his hands and his feet to claw his way up, dislodging backpacks, weapons, and boxes of food in his effort.

Santana, Puck, and Quinn reach the heap next. Quinn steadies herself and looks for a bow, some small knives, a gun. . .anything that can help her ward off the other tributes. Puck has found himself a massive mace, of all things, and is dislodging it. Santana just grabs a knife from the bottom of the pile, pitted and pathetic looking, but undoubtedly sharp, and lunges up the cornucopia.

There!

A package of darts, neatly bound together. They may be no more dangerous than those used in a bargame, but they're just as likely to be poisoned, or filled with trackerjacker poison. Quinn grabs them and whirls around.

It looks as though most of the tributes have decided to grab a backpack and flee. She can already see the twink from District Eight running away, while his fat, black girlfriend is rooting for a canvas duffel. Quinn turns around, fluid and smooth, and throws a dart. It lands, bringing a satisfying scream, in the girls' neck.

Her hand immediately goes to the dart, feeling it there, her eyes wide in her dark face. Quinn doesn't take the time to watch the rest of her reaction. She spins around to see who else is still coming.

Dave is at the very back of the pack, and she doesn't understand why at first. He's never been the fastest – he was made a Career primarily because of his size and brute strength – but he still should have beat the two heavyset girls who are already at the Cornucopia. As she squints her eyes, however, she notices that he's grabbed up the boy from District Three, the one in the wheelchair.

Except that they aren't allowed to bring anything into the arena that might help them – a token from their home district, and memento, but nothing else. Certainly not a wheelchair. The crippled kid is sprawled on the ground, pathetically trying to drag himself along by his forearms. Dave just laughs, once, before leaning down, and grabbing the boy's head beneath his two meaty palms.

Quinn looks away. She doesn't want to see, and she doesn't have time to watch, not when tributes are grabbing weapons and turning to attack. She still hears the crack, even as she throws a dart at the big-lipped blond, who somehow ducks under it, grabs some snowshoes and lopes off into the forest.

A box shifts somewhere above, falling and nearly hitting Quinn in the leg. She glances up to see what the disturbance is. Blaine has grabbed the tent, apparently, and is shifting his body to make his way down the Cornucopia, but Santana's reached him by this time. She lunges forward, knife in hand, and plunges it into the meatiest part of his thigh.

He doesn't scream, or even react, just twists so that the knife digs in deeper, but is wrested out of Santana's grasp, and then slides down the side of the Cornucopia. He stumbles a little on the ground, his leg almost giving way, but then he's running.

Quinn considers throwing a dart at him, but she only has four left and there are much more immediate threats.

The big girl from District Three, for instance, who is wrestling with Puck now for the mace. Unbelievably, she's winning, and when Quinn sticks a dart into the back of her neck, just beneath the fur of her hood, she doesn't even flinch, just jabs an elbow into Quinn's face and continues to fight.

Bright, hot pain sweeps across Quinn's face and she stumbles back a step. Somebody catches her, rights her with a whispered "Careful." She turns around and behind the stars in her vision she sees the freakishly tall kid grabbing the black girl, supporting her as they run toward the woods.

Quinn turns around again, and this it's the little, girly looking manchild from District Five or six, lunging at her with a knife. Quinn can already feel the warm liquid blood from her nose running down her chin, and has no desire to add more red to her ensemble. She reaches out and grabs the child's wrist, tugging it toward her as she lifts the hand with the darts.

The kid's eye bursts a little, like a grape that's been stepped on. Quinn pulls the dart back out and stabs it sharply into the left eye as well, before letting the child's lifeless body fall to the ground.

Xxx

Puck and Santana are sitting around their pathetic little fire. He's stoking it with twigs that Dave's gathered, and she's picking at the blood beneath her fingertips with a rusted knife. Dave is still hauling around various items of the Cornucopia, surround them so that the wind won't come in the night.

Eleven cannons for the first day.

Quinn lies out on her back, pillowing her head on Puck's thigh. He pats her head, a little awkwardly, before poking at the fire again. His body is warm beneath her cheek, and the fire warms her right side. She watches the faces flicker above her.

The first face is the crippled boy that Dave killed, which means that Blaine's still alive, bleeding from the leg, but alive. Then two pictures of District Four – so the heavyset girl who'd eventually won the mace from Puck is still alive, too. The child that Quinn killed. The two from District nine. . .it's the crippled kid, who she can't get over.

"His name was Artie," Puck says gruffly, and for a moment Quinn wonders if he's read her mind, until she realizes that she'd spoken aloud. Puck glances at Dave, as the bigger boy finally returns and sits down beside them. "You didn't have to kill him, dude. He wasn't a threat."

Dave just shrugs. "He was gonna die anyway. Really, it was a mercy killing."

"Yeah," Santana snorts. "Rip a kid's head off. Real merciful."

They all sit for a moment, staring into the fire. Quinn's body is finally feeling warm, wrapped up in a sleeping bag, but her insides feel like ice.

"Should I have just let him freeze to death? It's not like we were gonna carry his dead weight."

"Whatever," Santana says. She gives up on her nails, and lies down, her face a little too close to the fire. Her cheeks are flushed and the fire reflected in her dark eyes looks like hell. "So, how long before we turn on one another?"

Puck squirms a little beneath Quinn's head. She sighs. "Until we're the last ones standing," she says. "No matter what, the victor will be from District One or. . .wherever you two are from."

"District Twelve," Puck says. His breath huffs out, little clouds in the bitter night air. "And no offense, dollface, but that's the only place the money's going. We need that shit. You people wouldn't even know what to do with the tribute money."

They're all silent for a minute, and Quinn is thankful that Dave's somehow managed to reign in his tight temper.

"Why did you do it?" Quinn finally asks. She's looking at Santana, but her question is directed at the boy who's currently serving as her pillow. "Why did you volunteer?"

"I told you," Puck says, his voice gruff and harsh. "It's better than the mines. And Santana's brother couldn't make it. "

"That was your brother?" Dave asks, surprised. "The little kid whose name was picked."

Santana doesn't answer, she just pokes at the fire again. "I killed three people today," she says, her voice flat when she finally answers. "Four, if that kid from District Two bites it. I've never killed anyone before."

Puck whistles, a low, steady sound. "I didn't get anyone," he says. "Spent most of my time fighting the fat bitch with the mace."

Quinn's mouth quirks up into a smile. "Where is that mace, by the way?"

Puck barks out a laugh. "Girls got _cojones_," he says. "Why didn't we let her join our squad?"

"I believe you said that you were afraid we'd run out of food and she'd eat us, Noah."

Puck winces a little at that. "Not Noah," he says. "Noah ended at the Reaping. Just Puck, now."

Smoke curls up lazily from the fire. Quinn closes her eyes, and nuzzles in closer to Puck.

Xxx

They wake up in the morning, the fire a burnt remnant beside them. Quinn's legs are tangled with Santana's, and at some point in the night Puck had begun cuddling her waist like a ginormous throw pillow. Only Dave is alone, sitting on the opposite end of the fire, staring off into the woods.

**AN: Suddenly, I kind of want Quinn to win. Weeeeeeeiiiiirrrrddd.**

**COMING SOON: So what's Finn been up to lately, eh? Finn scrounges for food, Asian Fusion has to stay warm, Rachel frantically tries to keep Blaine from bleeding to death, Lauren makes an unlikely alliance, and Sam wanders in circles.**


End file.
